


Dangerous Territory

by Quincetale



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Angst, Conflict, Crossdressing, F/M, Hate to Love, Historical, Literary References & Allusions, Natural Disasters, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Premarital Sex, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Spies & Secret Agents, True Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-02 11:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16304654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quincetale/pseuds/Quincetale
Summary: Set at the dawn of the twentieth century in the midst of a restless, changing world. Christine Daaé is a headstrong girl who prefers the company of books to men, a budding botanist who finds more value in nature than fashion; Erik is a former soldier and government asset with a tumultuous past and enough skeletons in his closet to fill a graveyard. While on the adventure of a lifetime in the exotic Caribbean Christine is imperiled by her father’s altruistism. Helpless and in hostile, unfamiliar territory she has but one hope for survival, him. Can the two of them put pride and resentment aside to make it safely home or are they doomed from the start?





	1. Prologue: The Rambler

**Author's Note:**

> This is an original, alternate universe tale set at the turn of the twentieth century. Full of action, adventure, danger and romance, it’s a spy-thriller of sorts with some Susan Kay references sprinkled in. All main characters are PotO-based and it’s (naturally) an E/C pairing; being an AU story I had some leeway with regards to their backgrounds and portrayals but I tried to stay as in-character as possible. 
> 
> Erik is of course himself—biting sarcasm included—he is hiding from an unfortunate past and its associated secrets. His life is consumed by his work as a part of a fledgling unit of British foreign intelligence. He has been a lone wolf from a tender age and has no desire to change his methods for any reason or anyone. 
> 
> Christine is spirited, driven, and no-nonsense - although she comes across as uptight and dour. She's trying to be an educated, independent woman back when there really wasn't such a thing and takes exception to relying on a man. Her father (still alive) is self-made man and widower who dotes upon her, encouraging all intellectual pursuits. A love of academics, thorough education and sheltered existence has lent her an inflated ego. As a result her personality clashes magnificently with Erik's when they are unexpectedly thrown together. 
> 
> As for Raoul, he will not feature prominently in this story; his function is that of an older brother figure to Christine. There is absolutely no romance between them. 
> 
> The story is rated E for the later chapters but will edge more towards T for the most part - however, it does contain explicit language and several mature themes including mentions of abuse, sexual violence, and torture.
> 
> Hopefully you guys will find it an interesting read.
> 
> *I don't own any of the PotO characters, in case you didn't know already.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find ourselves on the other side of the world thirteen years before the story begins in earnest, a liaison has just arrived from the palace with an interesting account.

**Tehran - Summer 1889**

As the man rode down the city's narrow streets he could not help but scowl in disgust while attempting to guide his horse around the blasted vendor stalls and hordes of people. He had been in Persia as a translator for a year now - still he found its capitol filthy and longed for the day when he could return to England, to his comfortable townhouse in Marylebone where resided his lovely cook and all of her delectable dishes. The very thought made his stomach clench painfully; he could not recall the last time he had decent fare or a proper cup of tea.

True, Victorian London was overcrowded and rife with social problems but one could at least keep to the more respectable areas - out of sight, out of mind so to speak. Here the poor were everywhere, a constant reminder of humanity's exile from Eden.

It was indeed the height of cruelty that God's finest creations were made to suffer so. Difference of faith and culture aside, no one deserved such a bleak fate. He tried to keep his eyes ahead but could not prevent the occasional glance: men missing limbs on makeshift crutches hoping to sell their wares; the elderly, delusions spilling from their decaying mouths, wondering why they were made to linger amongst the living; women, battered and broken, selling any part of themselves for a morsel; children, squalid little skeletons, lay at their mothers' feet and sometimes quite alone, long-since abandoned in the hope that death would come swiftly.

Once again he was grateful for the keffiyeh shielding his face as he wept.

This was one of the circles of hell, of _that_ he was convinced. Each time he was made to pass through it his spirit dimmed a bit more, a dying star fading away. At last he reached the courtyard of the British Mission and, dismounting, breathed a sigh of relief. A boy was by his side in an instant, his black eyes roaming over the beast with reverent approval as he took the reins.

" _Beaut-i-ful an-i-mal_ , sir." he said in heavily-accented English, drawing out every syllable for clarity.

The man murmured a hasty gramercy in Persian and started towards the building only to halt mid-step. Perhaps it was the wretchedness he had just witnessed or that he had taken a liking to this lad, who always ensured his horse was well looked-after—or maybe still it was his need for absolution after a fortnight spent in sin—but he turned round and pressed a handful of coins into the boy's grubby palm. His action won him a low whistle of astonishment and he hurried away before anything could be said on the matter. Displays of emotion had always left him discomfited - a likely explanation for his enduring bachelorhood.

His stride did not falter until he reached his destination: a worn wooden door on the second level. Knocking, he was granted immediate entry and came to stand in front of a polished desk that was quite out of place in the otherwise shabby, dust-covered office - a small tast of luxury amidst squalor, he surmised. Then, everybody had his own method of coping. He would certainly go mad if he had to spend a great amount of time in Tehran or any part of this bloody country. A year had proven challenge enough, he had not the foggiest idea how his countrymen withstood it. Perchance that was why there was a new ambassador every few years. 

He removed his headdress and cleared his throat impatient to deliver his piece and retire to his flat so that he might soothe his aching body with a bath. Yes, after a scorching, gritty day in the saddle a bath was most definitely in order. Thankfully Captain Bertie Clarkson was not one for needless banter and looked up from his papers forthwith.

”Why, if it isn’t old Edgar Hill. What a pleasure to see you, dear chap! Sit down, please, sit down! Would you care for a tot of brandy?” Clarkson gestured to a handsome lead glass decanter, the only other piece of finery in the room. 

Hill received the snifter graciously. The initial taste of spirits on his tongue was bliss, he swore angels parted the heavens with their song to ring in his rapture. Fine brandy, port, and sherry cobblers were on the list of items most missed during his work in Persia. Once he was settled the Captain cut directly to the heart of it. 

“I trust your stay in the Shah’s palace was a pleasant one? Hally said you were an immeasurable asset.” Things could not have unfolded more favorably. Soon he would be enjoying a leisurely evening, his first in an eternity. 

"Yes, court life is ah,  _interesting_ to say the least. Lord Halston was absolutely enamored and made ample use of my skills, I barely had a chance to catch a breath.”

“AHA! How immensely typical of old Hally, eager as a schoolboy! That enthusiasm of his is what makes him such a crack _chargé d'affaires_." His next words were issued low, furtive, “And what of your _other_ business, were you able to look into the matter?"

"I was, in fact - although, finding time away from Lord Halston was not easy.”

“I figured as much. If he had his way he would carry on day and night without a wink of sleep. Nevertheless, I am rather glad you've managed. Tell me, are the legends founded in truth or are they simply village lore?" His impressive moustache practically twitched with anticipation. Clearly he had expended many an hour of contemplation over the veracity of these claims.

Edgar took a methodical pull of brandy, savoring its aroma and flavor. It was the closest he had come to sampling ambrosia.

”The rumors are no fabrication."

"Good Lord, what manner of answer is that, old boy? Were you any more vague you could enter politics!” He chuckled at his own joke, leaning over his desk, eyes wild. 

"What is it that you wish to know, sir?" Edgar rejoined calmly. The spectacle was an amusing one, this staunch military man breathlessly awaiting a tale stranger than fiction. 

There was an incredulous splutter. "You are well-aware of what I desire to know! What they’ve said, is it true, the fearful whispers in the gloom, the hushed mutterings of death? Is _he_ real, the one they call the Angel of Doom?”

Images, unspeakable sights and fantastical illusions from the past two weeks flashed through his memory. So authentic he could nearly reach out and touch them. His expression darkened ominously.

"Oh, yes, _quite_ real, and so much more than the stories; he surpasses even the most fantastical anecdote. I've not seen anything comparable within the realm of reality or imagination." The last sounded trite, absurd. He was a respectable scholar not some misguided peddler of cheap penny dreadful twaddle. Anyone who knew him would have believed him a loon for such sentiment; they would shake their heads and say that the desert heat had finally turned poor Professor Hill daft. Yet he had _seen_ things, things that violated the natural order. Seen _not_ concocted. 

—and now he could not unsee.

"Much more did you say?" Hill struggled to construct a fitting explanation, a difficult endeavor. 

"This—" Lord, he was not certain if the word ‘man’ was applicable and settled instead for an ambiguous descriptor, "... _being_ is not merely a court assassin, he's an artist, composer, magician, inventor, architect, _a wonder_ : Angel and devil fused into one and hidden behind a mask white as bone. He wears not the cowl of Death but the attire of a gentleman, a demon cloaked as an angel. His voice, my God, he can do extraordinary things with it, as if it were a weapon the same as any sword or pistol. It is both terror and beauty, supernatural, sublime. I consider myself a man of logic foremost, sir; I was an engineer with the army before I became a professor of linguistics. I do not hold with spirits, daemons, animism or peasant superstitions but this entity is—“

"Sui generis?" came the helpful suggestion. 

Captain Clarkson was collected, the marked opposite from his stunned, affected companion. On the contrary there was a sort of grim validation etched onto his features as if a physician had just confirmed a suspected diagnosis. Surely he did not have prior knowledge of this creature. Else why would he have had need to send a cantankerous old man on a mission of reconnaissance? And, yet his air of nonchalance spoke for itself. The stodgiest, most hackneyed lecturer would have been intrigued by such a description, let alone the masses. His colleagues at Oxford would have been fascinated, the inquisitive, callow pupil that resided at the core of every intellectual stoked. Good God, even those with a specialty in maths would be piqued and they were the very definition of prosaic.

There was something amiss, a nagging intuition of secrets lurking like an iceberg beneath the surface. He was abruptly struck with the impression that he had been played for an unwitting pawn in some larger scheme. The sensation was far from pleasant. 

"You were already aware of _him_ , this 'Angel of Doom'? May I ask, then, why you required my aid?"

"In a manner of speaking, _yes_ , but I knew of hearsay and whispers. What I needed—and what you have so kindly provided—was _proof_ and for that I am tremendously obliged." Clarkson paused, a cheerful glint in his eye, “Say, Hill, how would you like to return to London?"

He stared agape, a fish out of water.

What madness was this?

It took Hill a moment to gather his wits and another before surprise ebbed enough to allow speech. Shock quickly morphed into irritation. On a good day he had no tolerance for needlessly rhetorical questions but after hours spent on horseback baking in the sun he had even less so. Of course he wanted to return, what an asinine query! What Englishman in his right mind wished to stay in this barbarous land with its primitive laws and debauched customs? 

" _I ..._ I should like it very much indeed." A frown creased his already lined face, "Do you ask to bait and tease me?"

"Not at all! You have that charming residence in Westminster, do you not?"

"Marylebone. A townhouse on Baker Street."

"How delightful! I do so enjoy that part of London, you know, the epicenter of theatre and the arts. I am somewhat of a connoisseur of opera myself. At any rate, you have done me a great service. I am in your debt and it occurs to me that the best recompense would be to send you home. Unless you’d prefer some other reward?”

A second instance found Hill flabbergasted, his swimming, swirling head limited to the most basic of responses.

”No, sir.”

"Excellent! It is settled then! There is a steamer departing from Mazandaran the Saturday next, I shall book you passage." The Captain rose and extended his hand indicating the meeting had concluded.

A dream made real, that’s what it was. It was everything he had hoped for since stepping off the first bloody ship - but also an impossibility upon further consideration. What of his job, what of Lord Halston? If it had been as elementary as tendering his resignation he would have been home eleven months ago. Reluctantly, disheartened, he bit back his giddiness.

“With all due respect, sir, how is this possible? A translator is requisite for the ambassador and his staff."

"Oh, do not trouble yourself over that, my good fellow! I've secured both the necessary permission and a replacement, one with a connection to the palace no less. The situation is all well in hand. Go, dear chap, enjoy a production at Covent Garden for my sake."

Finally Edgar stood and shook the Captain’s hand, shook it with such gusto he worried his arm might drop off. The lure of a bath called to him like a siren. He hesitated at the door, a final thought, no more than a niggling curiosity persisted - his mood buoyed and bright he decided to ask.

"Forgive me, sir, but why the vested interest in this court assassin? He is incredibly dangerous, the prudent course would be to stay far away.”

"Perhaps I lack your wisdom, professor.” Clarkson grinned broadly, “As for my interest, my business is entirely my own and that of my superiors. You may rest assured that all aforementioned motivations are aboveboard.” Deciding it foolish to probe further and risk a rescission of the charitable gift he nodded and left it there. Best not pry, it was no longer his concern. Besides, what right did he, a translator, have to care?

“Very good, sir. You have my eternal thanks for the brandy and everything else. I apologize for my intrusion.”

"Nonsense! I’m sure you meant no harm by it. Have a safe journey and God-speed, Hill."

"Thank you again, Captain."

**o o o**

Riding back to his leased flat Hill was unable to stem the queer miasma of disappointment that arose within him; it should have been elation. After all, he was going home. Never had he imagined when he awoke this morning that he would be thusly blessed, not in a million years. Maybe he just required time to adjust and accept - yes, that _had_ to be the problem. What other cause could explain his conflicting feelings?

Time was the remedy for all things. 

He would revisit the subject after a long soak - or, better still, never again.

Yet, as he lay in bed that night he could not banish the thought. Miles and miles from the palace the Angel of Doom continued to haunt him. Whenever he attempted to close his eyes he was met with dazzling phantasms and scenes of violence, both equally unsettling. Had it not been folly he might have drawn a comparison to a guilty conscience but the juxtaposition was preposterous, he had no cause to feel remorse. _Absolutely nil_ , his inner voice concurred. Even so, he couldn't overlook the sense of betrayal eating away at his innards like moths trapped within a wardrobe. What a ridiculous notion! He scoffed; he had crossed nobody and assuredly not that thrice-damned brute. 

—assuming one _could_ play Judas to a veritable monster.

All he had done was affirm the existence of a myth and, really, _anybody_ could have done as much - and eventually would have. So what cause for guilt had he?

An involuntary shudder swept through him; tonight he had been sure to lock his windows and doors, though he was heedless as to why. Presumably a creature of such incomprehensible skill could pick a standard lock within seconds, that was _if_ he didn't drop from the ceiling like a bat or appear in a cloud acrid smoke. He laughed at those last two.

"Be gone! Cease your tormenting, I've committed no treason against you. Angels do not plague mortals, even if they are devils in disguise.” Now he was shouting nonsense into an empty room. Maybe the desert _had_ gotten to him.

_Ah, but I am the son of the morning, the one they called Lucifer, cast from heaven. My wings have burnt and withered, my soul is charred blacker than ink, my beauty is forever twisted and marred - angel I am no longer. I am hideous, a demon more horrible than any can bear. Monster, creature, beast, devil: none of these paltry words do me justice. You will discover this for yourself when you join me in my underground realm, for it is you who has henceforth sealed my tragic fate._

The response blew forth on an exhale of wind, each word formed by creaking and rattles. Alarmed, he threw back the covers glancing frantically about the room and saw nothing, or more specifically _no one_. He was alone and _this—_

This was doubtlessly a hallucination of an exhausted brain, was it not? He was torn on the subject, rationale and emotion at war. One fact became apparent, sleep would not come willingly tonight. 

”What have I done?” Edgar Hill whispered into nothingness, positive he could not begin to fathom the answer to that question but filled with dread nonetheless. 

 


	2. Full of Vexation Come I, With Complaint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a three month forced leave of absence Erik is summoned by his superiors and given an infuriating assignment but despite his outrage he has no choice in the matter.

**London - April 1902**

The man stroked his moustache absentmindedly as he read, he had not anticipated just how engrossing this novel would prove. He continued in this vein for some time until his eyelids began to droop with the weight of impending slumber. Yawning, he hazarded a glance at the mantle clock and immediately rose from his chair, a foreign oath rumbling off his tongue - the nacré face proudly announced it was nearly two in the morning. 

Another sleepless night, was it? He sighed. Perhaps in future it would behove him to refrain from cracking open new books so late in the evening.

Downing his glass of now tepid tea in one swift gulp, he placed the copy of Bram Stoker's  _Dracula_ upon the table and set off towards his bedroom. He opened the door and paused, his mind seemed frozen, his body paralyzed by hesitance to walk into the blackness. A fear of darkness was a uniquely human construction, he mused, other animals avoided the night to be sure but they did not cower in the face of it. 

— _not_ that he had ever been prone to such things either. However, after his latest choice in reading material he could scarcely help this newfound twinge of reluctance.

He was not the sort of fool to believe in apparitions, vampires, or dark creatures of folklore. His time in the Shah's palace had taught him that these tales were extraneous - plain living, breathing men were the true monsters. Shaking his head, he crammed down his unease and entered.

"Steady on, old boy, it is not as if Count Dracula is lurking in the gloom." he reassured himself with a chuckle, switching the lamp on.

"Are you so sure of that?" spoke a voice from the shadows.

Nadir jumped so high he was positive his head kissed the ceiling. Curse that insufferable maniac and his penchant for late night visits! He clawed at his chest in a fruitless effort to calm his overwrought lungs - Erik would doubtlessly lead him to an early grave. It was a wonder his heart had not given out yet. In fact, the masked man had been the impetus behind his habit of turning on the lights before walking into a room; a result of countless similar surprises—all _quite_ as unpleasant and some more so—over the years.

His guest may not have been one of the undead but he was every bit as unwelcome in the wee hours of the morning. Pondering the subject, the title character of Stoker's novel _might_ make a more favorable companion than Erik Grey. Dracula was, at the very least, polite. 

Well, for the most part that was.

His visitor stepped into the dim lamplight. Tall and well-built, with raven hair and eyes hovering between blue and grey, and dressed as he was in impeccably-tailored dark trousers and matching waistcoat, the man indeed bore a chilling resemblance to the fictional Count, save for the black bandit's mask obscuring the former's face from cheek to forehead. The comparison did not end with regards to physical appearance. Like Dracula, Erik was man of extraordinary prowess including an innate mastery of illusion, hypnotism, and talent for vanishing as it were; he was every bit as deadly, possessing a temper twice as frightening.

Warrior, musician, chemist, engineer and genius in virtually every other discipline, nothing seemed to elude his grasp. And then there was his voice— Like that of a siren but more powerful, _more_ alluring, able to entrance human and beast alike. An instrument in every sense of the word, he could use it for purposes either marvellous or nefarious and every conceivable thing in between.

Oh yes, the two could be brothers separated by time - though, he was uncertain if his friend's eyes turned red with rage. 

"As convincing an imitation of _la demoiselle en détresse_ as your shriek was, you are aware that Dracula's preferred victims were women, yes? I believe garlic, a branch of prickly rose, or holy water make for more effective apotropaics."

Heart still drumming a frantic rhythm and hour growing ever later, Nadir had little patience for his associate's customary dry barbs. He hadn't the slightest idea why tonight merited a social call. Especially given he had not seen hide nor hair of Erik for the better part of three months.

"Can you blame me for 'shrieking' as you call it? You damn near gave me an apoplexy! May I ask to what I owe the ah, _pleasure_ , Erik?" 

"Losing our mind in our dotage, are we? It was _you_ who sent for me." He situated himself in the room's only chair, resting his foot on the opposite knee and bringing his long fingers together into a steeple; the display miffed the Persian greatly. 

"Are your sharp eyes withering with time? It was Dicky who sent for you, not I. Surely, you can discern the difference in signatures, no matter how awful his hand."

"Dicky, is it now? You two make a pretty pair... a bumbling lord and his loyal spaniel come to mind." Erik sneered, "I am perfectly aware of _who_ summoned me, however I am not one for surprises. Seeing as you are Monthall's lap dog I thought to first gather information from you so I do not walk in blind."

"At two in the morning?" came the skeptical return.

"There's no time like the present. After all, they say a thousand unforeseen circumstances may interrupt you at a future time."

"So you trespass in my home to quote _what_ ... Donne at me?"

"Not even remotely close, daroga,” A reproachful click of tongue, “It appears literary scholar you are _not._ The name you were looking for was John _Trusler_."

The Persian's resultant glare was nearly worthy of the one at whom it was directed. Were he paying close attention, Erik might have been pleased with its quality. No longer wishing to participate in this pointless little exercise, he cut direct to the point - the sooner it was over, the sooner he could retire.

"How did you get into my room?"

Erik rolled his eyes, examining his nail beds indolently. "You insult me. I mastered lock picking before my sixth summer and scaling the garden walls by my seventh; by my eighth year, I would disappear for the entire night and none would be the wiser."

"I see you were _always_ destined for greatness, then." the Persian retorted acerbically, leaning against the bed post.

"Would you have ever thought otherwise? Although, I must admit it was not my inclination for burgling that brought me here tonight.”

"Are you still on mandated leave?"

There was a huff of annoyance, "Were I not, daroga, ask yourself if I would be sitting here conversing with an imbecile. I see you are astute as always, what a small wonder you are no longer a constable. _Why_ , I'd wager you might even make detective if you joined Scotland Yard!"

Nadir sighed. _Allah, give me strength_ , he implored; it was a frequent entreaty when dealing with Erik.

“I was the chief of police if you remember correctly, or have you forgotten the time our paths first crossed in Persia?" Some semblance of a smile graced Erik's lips.

"Forget? How could I? It was the highlight of my misspent youth." He could feel the stirrings of a migraine lapping at his temples.

“What is it that you want, Erik?"

"I want to know why Monthall has ordained a meeting. I have neither seen nor spoken to a soul for months and today I received a telegram - as for _how_ they located me, that’s a mystery for another time. You, on the contrary, have not experienced a lapse in information and as I have made clear, I’ve no desire to be caught unaware. So, tell me, has _Dicky_  finally decided to put the mad dog down or perhaps muzzle it and lock it away in the Tower of London?”

"You know I couldn't discuss this with you, Erik, even _if_ I knew his intent. I'm sorry I cannot help you."

The masked man gave a nonplussed shrug. "I see... I was hoping _other_ methods of extraction would be unnecessary - you've caught me without my usual tools. No matter, I'm nothing if not creative." His eyes swept the room casually, "I am quite sure I can find something to the proper effect."

"Going to torture me then?" Nadir asked bluntly, accustomed to such threats.

"I would prefer not to, I am rather fond of this shirt as it were and would hate to stain it."

"Oh, very well... Not that I am folding, mind you! I would just care to get the barest hour of sleep is all, which, I can only do once you leave. You are damned impossible, you know."

Erik smirked, reclining in the chair, "It is one of my more appealing traits, I daresay."

"So you would believe... I do not know a great deal only that Dicky has an assignment for you - something involving a retrieval and delivery operation. Whatever it was came up precipitously and has been kept quiet." He hoped the explanation would suffice. It was, in fact, the truth but whether or not Erik believed it was a different matter. The aforementioned was a suspicious man by nature, if he deemed the response unsatisfactory it would be a long and painful night. Fortunately, luck appeared to be on his side.

"Ah, so he wishes me to play the faithful pup? _Me_ , Nadir! His most skilled asset made to fetch like a common cur. It is undignified, egregious!" The statement issued forth a bitter snarl. 

"I would tread more carefully were I you, my friend. You—"

"Tread more carefully?!" Erik was standing over him now, undiluted venom burning in his eyes. Rather than glowing crimson the irises danced like blue flames. Fierce, merciless, able to melt flesh and bone with ease. A height discrepancy of a few inches stretched inexplicably into feet rendering him insignificant and powerless in the face of a mightier being. For the first time in a long while terror trickled down his spine. Still it was not enough to strike him dumb—he had been subjected to worse—and so he persisted rationally.

"Yes, caution would be best after what happened with—" No sooner had he spoken than an eerie charge crackled to life within the room, it tickled his skin making each hair stand on end. He could feel it tingling inside his blood, a thrumming, extant current of energy, harmless unless it surged to fatal voltage. Without warning he was seized by the lapels of his dressing robe and lifted clear of the ground. 

" _Say it._ " Erik hissed, his tone a dare. In that moment he saw not a savage madman but a broken wretch who had lost everything. Reputation was all he had left. 

"Your quarrel is not with me, I would appreciate if you would let me down." he said solemnly. 

He was released immediately and knocked off balance fell to the floor. In the scant seconds it took to collect himself Erik was gone, disappeared into the night like a ghost.

His friend had been altered significantly within the past year, gone was the light in his eyes and the fire from his spirit. He was a shell of a man after the tragedy that had befallen him. Strange how one could be touched by hundreds of misfortunes throughout life but toppled by one. Then, it was the way of things, he supposed. The unfair, twisted way of the world. Despite the futility of it Nadir mumbled a prayer to Allah before sliding into bed.

**o o o**

Some hours later, on the morning next, Erik stood facing the office door. It leered at him, a oaken executioner scrutinizing its victim for weakness. His expression was stoic, measured - he would afford it neither satisfaction nor power over him. He would meet his fate as an Englishman should with unflappable certitude and dignity.

Resolve memorialized in stone, he raised his fist and rapped upon the wood. There was naught that could shake him now, come what may. Though he was equipped with a basic knowledge of the purpose behind these summons any further details escaped him. 

Last night’s visit had not been as fruitful as previously hoped. But, _che sera, sera_  as it were. It was too late to turn back even if he had been possessed of a caitiff’s disposition.

Alas, a coward he had never been.

A muffled voice bade him enter and he obeyed tout de suite. Those flitting thoughts of punishments, dismissals, and unpleasant assignments crumbling away in his swiftness of stride. Perhaps they had decided his transgressions demanded repayment in the form of a limb or head; perhaps he would be sent into exile in some sweltering colonial cesspit, doomed to live out his miserable days amidst mosquitoes and cholera; or perhaps he would be relegated to wiping dribble off the chins of foreign diplomats whilst eavesdropping on their conversations. Three ghastly ghosts of his future notwithstanding, he could not bring himself to be bothered.

Not quite a year ago he had lost a part of himself forever. _Never_  would he be whole again - this realization came after the fact. For one whom avoided intimacy with a fierce doggedness it wounded deeply; for a man who had eschewed family and camaraderie for a majority of his life it dealt a mortal blow. Worse still was the regret that pierced his skin like hundreds upon hundreds of living quills, assailing him evermore with a chorus of,

_Why did you wait so long to know your own flesh and blood? Why did you forsake your brother?_

He was no better than Romulus who had murdered his twin over a triviality. His life was a constant torment. The hellish choir within him had fanned the flames of vindication, cried for blood, urging and cajoling until he had snapped.

Revenge had been meted out, _oh yes—_

And, while it brought an initial galvanizing taste of joy, the peacefulness that had blanketed his damaged soul was swept away by the first gust of wind. He comprehended then that vengeance was a fragile, temporal thing. But, it was too little, too late - he was left more hollow, less human. 

There was nothing more that could be taken from him. Let him be locked in the deepest dungeon, drawn and quartered, or packed off to some festering backwater colony he no longer cared about his fate. Thoroughly resigned, he removed his hat not in conscientious respect but out of wearied apathy, and waited.

The man behind the desk held up his finger for pause as he finished a mess of inked dashes, loops, and squiggles and folded it without giving it time to dry. Then, it did not much matter, Richard Monthall had atrocious penmanship. Whatever he penned to paper would ostensibly be an unintelligible mass, smudged or not.

"I've been expecting you, Grey. Please sit, it is already enough to look up when we're both standing but with me sitting down I feel my neck may snap.” He chuckled and gestured to the pair of club chairs facing him. Monthall wiped his spectacles with his handkerchief and regarded his guest with the mien of inscrutability he had cultivated during his time with Scotland Yard.

It proved more than the younger man could tolerate, he had not come here to loiter whilst his future hung in the balance. If he was to be chastened or dismissed he wanted to simply have done with it.

"Why have you summoned me, _sir_?" He attempted to modulate his impatience by tucking it behind a veil of respect.

"Ever so unflinchingly direct... I've always admired you the more for it, my boy. It has been a spell, hasn't it? Nearly three months, yes. May I ask what you have taken to doing in your hiatus, hobbies and the like?"

More idle banter...

Erik gritted his teeth, forcing composure. "I've been restoring a dilapidated Jacobean country house I purchased, burned down and since forgotten; it requires a complete renovation.”

"Have you really? Well, that is absolutely capital!" He must have caught the look in Erik's eyes, for he quickly changed tack, "At any rate, there is no need to look so grim. I have not requested your presence for pleasantries or reprimand, instead I meant to ask you what you know of a Mr Gustave Daaé. His name is familiar to you, I trust?"

A wholly unanticipated question to be sure. One that for some reason—he failed to see how—was not categorized as aimless chitchat. He examined Monthall for some indication of an answer and found nothing.

"I am vaguely aware that he is in the shipping industry and have heard his name mentioned in passing but that is the extent of my knowledge.” Suddenly the daroga's words screamed within his head. Was this the plan, requesting he bring back some lost cargo?

If so it was a fate worse than being clapped in irons. Such a mundane task would be torturous to any being of reasonable intelligence but for Erik it would prove no less than hell, the cruellest sanction. He was positive Monthall knew as much. Maybe there would be a choice offered: prison or errand. There was no question as to which option he would choose - he had survived Persia, British prisons were a holiday in Cannes by comparison.

"You are correct concerning his livelihood, he has amassed a sizeable fortune in his endeavors. Emigrated from Bermuda as a lad and started from naught but a few aging, leaking steamers - a self-made man in every sense but true to his modest beginnings. Gustave Daaé has revitalized several port towns, which, without his business would have remained lawless, gin-soaked gutters. He holds a seat in the House of Commons, no doubt elected for his immense generosity. Daaé is a humble man driven by a rather noble goal of order and equality and was instrumental in the passage of the Judicature Acts to reorganize the legal system. This, as you can imagine, has made him some notorious enemies including a certain crime family who had previously used the divided system to their advantage. We have it on good authority that both he and his family are now in danger of retribution.”

"This is all a rather intriguing tale, sir, and I’ve no intention of sounding ... _impertinent_ but why have you called me here to discuss some disillusioned, sentimental fool with a foot in politics?"

Therein followed a brief silence, Erik’s sense of foreboding multiplying with each gentle lurch of the clock's hands. It was as though the bars of a great cage were hemming him in, sliding closer and closer. Like a wild animal he was cornered, soon his cool demeanor would crack.

"Not at all, not at all! I am glad you inquired, my boy. You must have thought me a mad old rambler but I was just getting to it. Daaé's son, Christopher, departed for the Caribbean five days ago on an expedition with some esteemed naturalist or another. Unfortunately the threats against his father came after the lad was steaming across the Atlantic. According to our intelligence the boy is the likely target in a kidnapping attempt. Naturally, it would be next to impossible to ensure his safety halfway around the world—“

"Unfortunate, _truly_ , but I fail to see my role in the situation." The alarm bells in his brain were blaring now, wailing in a dreadful, droning racket. He did not want to hear the all-but guaranteed reply.

"I am asking you to locate the boy, retrieve him, and return him to his father."

All control and impassivity broke free of its bearings. At once Erik jumped up quaking with rage, he slammed his palms onto the desk. Here was an insult among insults! _Him?_ A priceless credit to foreign intelligence— _he_ who spoke damn near every language, who could infiltrate fortresses with the touch of a spectre, who was a master of combat armed or not, who never once failed or botched an operation, who had the gall to do whatever necessary, who had given the best years of his life to Monthall's damn enterprise—forced to traipse across the globe playing nursemaid to some pampered milksop.

It was an outrage, an atrocity! More offensive than an amateur attempting one of Verdi's arias, utter condemnation.

"So _this_ is what years of service to the Crown has bought me Richard, a position as a glorified nanny? Forgive me if I am decidedly underwhelmed..." he spat viciously, nails digging into the varnish. His superior was on his feet in a horrendous scuffle of wood-on-wood. Though shorter and older than Erik, he still cut a rather intimidating figure when angered.

"Now, _see here,_ Grey! Not a soul in this organization, least of all myself, harbors any doubts over your talents. I will not deny that you are one of the finest men to have ever served, if not _the finest_. However, what your abilities do _not_ afford is the right to exact a personal vendetta. Put aside your infernal arrogance, boy. After your ridiculous actions, you should be bloody appreciative that you are not rotting in a cell awaiting an appointment with the gallows, much less allowed to retain your position - and, you should be _damn_ grateful that I am even considering you for another field assignment!” Monthall sucked in a cleansing breath, his tone softening, “I cleaned up your mess, Erik. I felt you deserved as much because I, too, understand what it is to lose someone dear. Regardless of what your wounded pride may say, a debt is owed. I ask this small favor in repayment when I could conceivably request much more. And, I will thank you to never address me in such an insubordinate manner again.”

The subsequent overwhelming sense of guilt walloped him hard, striking blows about his head and chest until his breath was knocked away. Since childhood he had been aloof, wayward even, as a result of his hideous condition and had deviated repeatedly from the path of morality, but he had never sank too deeply into darkness. He first took a life at the age of sixteen: a rapist with ten victims to his name, some of them just girls - the filth was hunted down and dispatched without mercy, death was a protracted mess of grovelling and sobs. When the rat had drawn its last he did not feel the pang of remorse that accompanied killing an animal. Rather, there had been pleasure in it. 

Afterwards he switched prey, hunting not man-eaters but murderers, rapists, and other scourges upon humanity. A monster hunting monsters. It was poetic, really. He had done much the same in Persia when he grew tired of India taking his bloodlust even further as a court assassin. Yet even then he refused to kill wantonly, disobeying the Shah’s morbid whims; he had paid dearly for his audacity, of course. Still he held true to his bizarre set of convictions, he never tortured excessively, did not harm the innocent, and shunned personal involvement. In a word he was a blind executioner. 

And, until last year had remained unconsumed.

Last year... it hung over his head, a thick, pervasive fug. 

He could not bring himself to revisit the memory. A blackness had erupted inside of him that day, beginning as a minuscule blot of India ink and slowly bleeding until it had spread to every part of his soul. In spite of his devil’s visage and the blood staining his hands he had not become a true beast until that day. The tide of malignancy breached its banks that day, bubbling and oozing like pitch; it possessed him, poisoning all traces of the man he had once been. That day he had killed for the sheer joy of killing. If his superiors noticed a change in him they didn't interfere - his work did not suffer for it, if anything he became _more_ ruthlessly efficient.

Until three months ago.

His reprisal had been too grisly and serious to ignore. He made no attempt to conceal his crime. Perhaps, deep-down this was because he had intended it to be his swan song - he had done it knowing the punishment. But, Monthall saw through him, saw the twisted, agonized creature within; Erik was placed on an indefinite period of leave.

 _Go into the country_ , the man had urged, _go wherever makes you happiest and find yourself some peace._

Cowed and thoroughly ashamed, fury yielded to indifference. No words seemed particularly fitting, he was still too proud to reveal he had been affected.

"When do I leave?"

Monthall sank back into his chair and produced a leather portfolio. "Tonight. Everything you will need is here, your train departs within the hour and from there I've booked you passage aboard a steamer. All else is detailed withi the provided dossier." He handed it over and hesitated a moment, opening his mouth as if to add something else but shook it away. 

"God-speed, my boy." was all that was said. 


	3. The Appeal of Hic Mulier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine has a chance to study flora under a legendary naturalist and is resolved to do everything in her power to make her dream a reality - even if it means risking life and reputation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place some five days earlier than the previous one.

CoGustave Daaé sat in his study poring over the usual admixture of shipping manifests, contracts, and finances. Any other man of position would have passed this task straight on to their solicitors and accounts without second thought. After all, gentlemen had far more _important_  concerns: shooting, cigars, horses, cards, mistresses and the like. Business was a dull affair, its monotony better left to the tedious people whose job it was to specialize in it. He took heart in being an exception to the general rule. Not that he did not have others at his disposal—an operation as large as his necessitated the fact—he simply preferred to handle matters himself, his enduring work-ethic impossible to switch off.

What purpose was served in deviating at this stage?

Sorting the last papers into their meticulously ordered piles he checked his pocket watch - twenty-five minutes past four. Afternoon tea would be upon him in just five fleeting minutes. Wishing to be presentable for his guest, he smoothed his waistcoat and straightened his tie before moving to sit by the fireplace - _not_ that she cared one jot if he was in his nightshirt or white tie; he was dear to his daughter regardless of if he more closely resembled a vagabond than a gentleman.

Ah, little Christine, his pride and joy. 

He could not have been more pleased with the fine young lady she had become, every bit as beautiful and clever as her mamma had been. Gustave was by no means a vain man, seldom boasting of his incredible fortune, but his daughter was the one subject guaranteed to make him puff up like a strutting rooster.

As he waited he could not help the selfish melancholia nettling at his heart, soon simple indulgences like afternoon tea and chats over literature would be but cherished pastimes.

Christine was fast approaching her twentieth year and he could no longer delude himself into believing that she was the same small child who had favored tree climbing over French lessons. In short time she would marry and start a household of her own with a husband and pretty children to dote on, her widowed father shuffled to the side - but, alas, such was the way of the world. The realization did not embitter him. On the contrary he had pulled himself out of the wretched sea of poverty to give her the option for a good marriage and promising future.

—though upon further introspection, maybe he needn’t dwell on such things at present...

His daughter was still found far more interest in Herodotus and Horace than she did in parties, ribbons, or romance. Perhaps that was for the better. Christine was his greatest treasure, a diamond of some rare color, a grand bird of radiant plumage, she was much too precious to squander on just any man.

No, it would have to be a very extraordinary fellow indeed to tempt him into giving away her hand. Love, of course, would be requisite - true, deep, unwavering love like that which he had shared with her mother. He could not bear to part with her for any less. 

At four thirty on the nose the door opened to reveal kind, plump Mrs Burns with the tray of tea. Regular as always. There was comfort to be had in regularity. It was another reason why he would be dashed when came the time to entrust his Christine to someone else. He was aware of the oddity engendered by his tremendous regard for his daughter, to most fathers they were chattel to be bartered for wealth and alliances - if a man did harbor such sentiments he wisely hid them. Sons were a much more valuable commodity, sons were legacy, the continuation of bloodline and title. Even so he would not dream of trading his darling girl for the security bought by a male heir, not in this lifetime or the next.

"Here we are, sir. I've bought the sponge cake you are so fond of from the bakery and Mrs Reed has included the lemon tarts Miss Christine fancies so well." Mrs Burns cheerfully announced cutting him loose from his reverie.

"Very good, very good." Gustave grinned, "Whatever would I do without you and Mrs Reed, Mrs Burns?"

"Wither away in your study, most likely, sir."

He chuckled, plucking a fat currant scone off the plate - second to the sponge cake they were his favorite. “I should think that a very distinct possibility. Say, where _is_ my daughter?”

"Right here, papa!” a bright voice called from the doorway.

Christine entered as the housekeeper left, gliding into the room with a grace inherited from her mother. At a cursory glance she could have indeed passed for his dear, late wife - the fair complexion, figure, chestnut curls and features were all Charlotte but the eyes—the rich brown of chocolates or coffee—were his own. Looking at the creature before him he realized there was no way he could grasp onto every father’s fever dream, that his little girl would remain just so forever. There was no denying she had blossomed into a lovely young woman.

"Good afternoon, papa.”

"Yes, it is, now that you have _at last_ decided to join me. You almost left your poor papa to starve whilst you were off gallivanting Lord knows where. For shame, child!”

A small frown creased her brow, "I’m not terribly late, am I?”

"No, of course not. An attempt at levity on my part, albeit a poor one." Gustave smiled reassuringly and gestured for her to sit.

Brilliant and learned as his daughter was, she was an abysmal judge of sarcasm and jest. While she _did_ make jokes and was possessed of a knife-sharp wit oftentimes she was too serious. That was not to say she lacked a sense of humor, she simply had difficulty expressing it. The servants voiced their well-meant concern endlessly, Christine was too contrary for a girl her age, she should be giggling with friends not perusing texts on biology and Latin. He brushed all of their complaints aside. 

True, she was a touch priggish at times but he knew there lay a slumbering creature of mirth within just waiting to be awakened. One day she would meet someone who could coax this dormant gaiety to the surface. Gustave added another item to the list of requirements for potential suitors. At the rate he was going it would be a wonder if she _ever_ got married - which, naturally was completely fine by him.

Tea was a routine affair. Christine detailed the latest book she had read, sharing some comical insult she had come across in one of Chaucer’s works. They spoke of his business at length, which crew had accidentally damaged some cargo; which captain had been in his cups and run aground; which contract was giving him issue and so forth. Rather than succumbing to the ravished of boredom she contributed animatedly to the conversation. Yes, she made a fine heir to his company. His future was in secure, capable hands - how many men with precious sons could say the same?

"Papa?" He made a sound low sound of acknowledgment in the back of his throat. 

"Were you listening?"

"I'm afraid I was lost in thought, my sweet. I am but an old man with a frail, wandering mind. But fret not you command my full attention now, I swear it." He offered a penitent look.

"You know you are no such thing, papa. Anyways, I've finally finished cataloguing every species of plant, moss, tree, and flower on the estate, that's why I was late to tea. I've even sketched them too. Professor Harding says sketching is as fundamental to the biologist as the discovery itself and Schleiden says in his _Principles of Specific Botany_ that—"

"Oh, hang Schleiden! Show me _your_ sketches instead of prattling on about those of some German swine." His declaration earned him a giggle crowned with a radiant grin. She was beauty itself when she smiled. It was a pity she didn’t do so with regularity, for if she did England would have more days of sunshine. 

"I was hoping you would want to see them." Nervous color lit her cheeks as she produced a portfolio. Queer that something could be so fragile and yet so strong - much like her beloved flora. 

He thumbed through her drawings for several moments: this one in water colors; that one in ink; others in charcoal. They were numerous and honestly ... _not_ immensely inspiring, but it was clear she had expended enormous effort.

"You know, my girl, you are an appalling artist. You've an intellectual mind and a vast knowledge of subjects, that's indisputable; your voice rivals that of the angels; you have some skill at the piano; I'm sure you would be a marvellous dancer, had you wished to learn; you can embroider well; your hand is neat and your letters small and pretty - yet for all your virtues, you will never be immortalized as a great master. Say, what is this supposed to be?"

" _Hydrangea macrophylla_."

"A hydrangea, hm? It looks like an unravelling ball of yarn being swatted about by..." he squinted, "... green paddles. I'm sorry, dearest, but mayhap you should leave the illustrations to that German rogue."

To his surprise she laughed. Count on her to appreciate critical candor. "Oh, I know I am just dreadful! I would have given up illustration long ago but I have such fantastical pictures in my head. I keep trying in the hope that one day they might translate to paper. Are the sketches truly _that_ bad, papa?" Gustave gave a somber nod, closing the portfolio and handing it back.

"Absolutely _ghastly_."

She took it and held it in her lap, fiddling with the ties, "You _know_ ,"

Already he could tell there was some wicked plot stirring inside her pretty little head. In her voice was that sweet, pleading chord she reserved specifically for when she wanted something, that tone he had been helpless to resist since her infancy. He wondered if she had engineered this whole thing, predicting his reaction to her artwork.

—she probably had, the clever lass, and he had fallen right in.

"Perhaps if I were to study under a venerated botanist such as Professor Harding I could become more proficient. It is my dream to publish my own research on botany and however could I do so with such an obvious impediment?"

"I suppose you could always employ an illustrator." he suggested offhandedly.

"Well, _yes_ , but examining the parts of the whole and committing them to paper is the true thrill - the subtly changing concentration of green pigment from leaf to stem; the various hues comprising each satin petal; fthe specks and clods of dirt clinging to the roots and bulb; a crook in a leaf; the mark of an insect... An illustrator has no passion for these things, they portray the ideal, they illustrate in a literal sense - the truly _unique_ , those minuscule imperfections, is lost on them. No, it won’t do to recruit an artist or even another botanist, I want the work to be my own, to be a part of me; I want all to see the world through _my_ eyes, to show the reflections of  _my_ soul.”

"Would you like me to hire a tutor? I am sure there is such a thing."

"Whyever would you need to do something so silly when Professor Harding's expedition to the Caribbean leaves in a few days?"

Her motive now laid bare, Gustave adopted his most resolute, fatherly countenance, shutting his ears to the silvery voice that enticed him to capitulate. "Christine," he said sternly, "I thought we had already discussed the matter? The answer is still and will remain a firm no."

Unfortunately his eyes were not the sole trait he had passed to his offspring, she had also inherited his stubborness and would not be so easily dissuaded. 

"That was before you saw my work, even you admitted it was horrid. Please allow me this, papa, it would mean so very much to me."

"You know it pains me to deny you, Christine, but there is no conceivable way. I cannot take an indefinite absence from my business to accompany you and Mrs Giry is currently away in France with her own daughter. I would send a servant but we keep such a small staff as it is that I couldn't spare one. We've no relations that might escort you and a young lady voyaging alone is unconscionable. It’s such a long journey, besides, thousands upon thousands of miles - what if something were to happen? No, I cannot allow it; no father in his right mind could or would. That is the end of it, I’m sorry.”

"But you allowed me to go to university in America and New York is also thousands upon thousands of miles from here." she pointed out logically.

Drat her and her rationality!

Pride mingled with annoyance as he spluttered in an attempt to save face, "Yes, ah, well— that was _different_ , you see. You had Mrs Giry as a chaperon and attended an all female institution whereas in this instance you would be alone and surrounded by men striving to take advantage. I'm sure you are not ignorant of the unsavory and wayward sort who find work aboard ships, if not from your novels then from my trade - half the time they are inebriated and the other half they are frequenting places of ill-repute. _Why_ , an attractive young woman travelling unchaperoned would be akin to a trussed pheasant atop a serving platter to them! I would sooner die than put you in a position for ruin."

"All of this I already know but it shan't be a problem because I will _not_ be travelling as a vulnerable young woman."

"What lunacy is this, child? Have you been scouring volumes of black magic in your leisure time? Have you recently learnt some spell to turn yourself into a chair or a trunk?"

"Don't be ridiculous, papa, it is impossible to turn oneself into an inanimate object. However, it is quite possible to change into the opposite sex..."

"Preposterous!" Gustave thundered, "The very thought is blasphemous. This must be witchcraft of the darkest sort. I have no want of a son. If you become male I shall see you disowned."

“Oh, don’t you see, papa? I won't _truly_ be a boy, not really. Remember when I was small and you took me to see _The Merry Wives of Windsor_? You told me that when Shakespeare's works were first performed the female roles were played by men and boys because the law disallowed women from being onstage; you said sometimes this even extended to opera. I would only be _playing_ the part of a boy. It’s not as though I am the first to have the idea, besides. Portia from _The Merchant of Venice_ dressed as a man to defend Antonio against Shylock; and in _Cymbeline_ Imogen dresses herself as a page; Gautier's heroine disguises herself as a man to discover how they act without the company of women; and _then_ there's that fairy tale by Madame d'Aulnoy wherein the protagonist Belle-Belle—"

"Those are just stories. How could _you_ pass for a boy, silly child?" he interposed, "You've hardly the figure to suggest masculinity. And what of your hair? It would give you away in an instant." Christine was beaming now, sensing her looming triumph.

"These are things easily remedied with the right cut of clothing and a pair of shears."

"You're not thinking of cutting your hair off in earnest, are you - and all for an absurd voyage?" 

"Not _off_ , no—just a bit ... _shorter_. It will be easier to manage in the field, especially with the climate; my hair grows like weeds anyways.”

"Foolish, delusional girl! I should send you to the nursery without dinner for such ravings."

"I have not been in the nursery for some time, papa. I _am_ a woman now and I know my own mind. I've given this a great deal of thought. You cannot treat me as a child forever, eventually I must have a life outside of Oxfordshire.”

"Yes, I see that you have... Oh, my dear Christine, I _know_ you are not a child and I _do_ want you to forge your own path in this world but you must understand that not all share my opinion that girls should be allowed such freedoms. I know you do not care what this lord or that lady thinks of you or if Society clicks its tongue in disapproval, but this is not solely matter of public opinion. There are potential consequences involved, some of them dangerous, and were it not so, I would gladly give my consent. You must also understand that you are all I have left in this world aside from my health and fortune. Selfish and tyrannical as it may be, I cannot allow you to go.”

"I understand...” Christine’s expression fell for a fractional second before reassembling; it brightened conspiratorily, “What if Raoul were to accompany me? You know his family incredibly well and we've been friends since infancy. He could escort me and ensure that _Christopher's_ secret stays exactly that; additionally he has won accolades in fencing and could defend my honor gallantly if the need arose."

Her desperate ploy appeared to have worked for Gustave appeared embroiled in thought. "Raoul de Chagny? Yes, I suppose that would alter the situation. Would he be willing? Mind you, this is _not_ a declaration of assent!"

" _Willing?_ He's the one who suggested it in the first place - one of his Oxford companions mentioned it to him in passing. Raoul told me he's always wished to visit the Caribbean but has never been given an opportunity. Although he isn't interested in the flora, the expedition will provide him a chance to study the insects and other fauna. Tropical climes are a haven for bugs as you know."

"I had forgotten the boy was a budding entomologist. Wasn't he the one who used to chase you around with spiders and beetles in jars?

The recollection made her shudder; she always hated spiders. "That was him, yes."

A silence settled over the room then, the dying words lingering and fading softly like notes sustained by the damper pedal of a piano. Gustave was deep in his musings and Christine knew better than to disturb him, she bit her tongue to keep from speaking. It was torture. The clink of china and tick of clock the lone noises in an otherwise soundless void. She worried she’d go mad from it until her father's face relaxed and he placed his empty teacup upon the table, settling himself into his sternest manner.

"So you plan on calling yourself, Christopher, eh? Not James, Jack, Long John Silver, Huckleberry Finn, Oliver Twist, or Mr Darcy?"

"I thought it best to find a name close to my own, that way I am less likely to inadvertently give myself away." 

Gustave threw up his hands in exasperation, admitting defeat. " _All right_ , you've made a fine point. I can see how dear this is to you and I've decided to put it to deliberation. However, I make you _no_ promises. Tomorrow you will bring Raoul de Chagny before me and I will speak with him; afterwards I will make my final decision. Since I am agreeing to even entertain this insanity, I will also require your word that you will accept my ruling whatever it may be. Do I have that, Christine?"

"You do, papa."

"No, no, that won't suffice." He waggled a finger, "I _need_ your word."

"I give you my word that I will offer no rebuttal regardless of what you decide." Christine forced back a smile, keeping her features even and collected. She refused to crack at this late hour, not when she was so close to achieving her dream. " _And_ I give you my infinite gratitude for your consideration." He scrutinized her carefully for a moment as if to detect sincerity.

"Then we have an accord." At once she jumped up and rushed over to him, throwing her arms about his shoulders and showering his cheeks with kisses.

"Oh, thank you, papa, thank you _so much_!"

"Yes, yes... enough of all that now. Go on, get back to your plants and books, you silly girl! Remember I haven't decided anything, my answer is still no until otherwise determined. Have the boy come to call tomorrow after luncheon."

"I'll ring him as soon as I leave the room!" she cried gaily, practically skipping to the door.

"I shall speak to him alone, just so you know. Do not even attempt to feed him answers, I will know _immediately_ if he is coerced and then not only will I forbid you from going on this excursion, I will erect a tower hundreds of feet high and lock you away at the very top until you are withered and grey and the world resembles an H.G. Wells novel."

But Christine did not hear his threats over the song that left her as she stole from her father's study, beaming and lighter than air. She could have floated down the hall had her dress and shoes not weighted her down.

" _Silly girl_." Gustave mumbled to himself as he watched her depart, unable to contain the grin that touched his lips. Her happiness was infectious, a great cloud of effervescence that buoyed even the most glum of spirits.

Listening to the sound of her singing dwindle alongside her footsteps he couldn't help but feel the battle had already been lost and that come Wednesday he would be waving farewell at the Southampton docks.


	4. Of Mysteries and Melodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several paths cross in the tropical paradise of Martinique. Meanwhile, Gustave, plagued by regret over allowing Christine to go, prays that she will be found and safely returned to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some minor time jumps: at the beginning roughly eleven or so days have elapsed from the date of Christine’s departure from England; the little anecdote about Gustave happens concurrently. Lastly, the later half takes place about two weeks afterwards which puts us in late April.

Amidst the bustling confluence of vessels coming and going like the tide was a steamer. She was not the largest, newest, or most impressive, in fact she was quite ordinary, if a bit dog-eared. However as she steamed into the island port of Saint-Pierre and made berth, she was without debate the _happiest_ ship the entire leeward side of Martinique. A general aura of unbridled jubilance seemed to emit from her stacks with each sooty puff. Both passengers and crew were equally gladsome to see land after a long, exhausting journey and chattered animatedly over what earthly comfort they were looking forward to most. Whether this was a hearty meal, good drink, or pretty lass, the optimism was palpable.

Somewhere nestled within the throng were two bright but bleary-eyed youths who joined in on the anticipatory revelry that had commandeered the ship.

"What is the first thing you are going to do when we reach the inn, Raoul?" The taller of the two rubbed his jaw, blanketed with the wispy beginnings of a beard.

“Shave." he replied flatly, "It itches something dreadful. I would have done it sooner but my cabin vibrated so much that I'd have slit my own throat. Immediately thereafter I plan on scrubbing a weeks' worth of salt and soot from my skin, downing a proper glass of cognac or port, and sinking into a mattress that does not pitch and roll like it’s upon the back of a horse. What about you? If I am uncomfortable you must be totally miserable."

His companion fixed him with a challenging look. "And why would  _I_ be miserable? Just because you are a dandy doesn't mean I'm bothered by the spartan amenities."

Raoul grumbled under his breath, "Forgive my presumption! I wasn't aware you were so well-accustomed to going days between washes."

"I simply do not feel the need to grouse endlessly about it as you do. Anyways, the first thing _I_ wish to do is explore the island."

" _Explore?_ " he echoed in disbelief, "Are you in earnest? Of all the things you could do: bathing, sleeping, resting, walking on solid ground, eating more than dubious stew, tinned fruit and stale bread, you want to explore? You _are_ completely mad...”

"Oh? And what else shouldI want to do, be soused and slothful like you?" Christine retorted, bristling defensively.

"Not necessarily verbatim but, you know, the usual things one does after nearly two weeks cramped aboard a tottering old ship."

"Who is to say I will not? Only, I desire to investigate our new surroundings first and foremost. Professor Harding gave me some reading material on the flora of the Lesser Antilles to look over and I'm eager to—"

He held up a wearied hand, shaking his head sympathetically. "While _you_ spend tonight charting every flower and blade of grass you happen upon, _I_ will be researching nearby madhouses with a snifter of brandy in hand in the event your mania worsens."

There was a grunt of pain followed by Raoul massaging a now-stinging shoulder; Christine had always known how to hit the most tender spot even when they were children. "And _you_ , Raoul de Chagny, are a ... _a_ _detestable arse_!"

"Watch yourself," he warned with mock conviction, leaning in so only she could hear, "just because you are dressed like a man does not mean you should be swearing like one. I would _hate_ to have to write a letter to your father detailing your newfound coarseness - being that I am responsible for you after all."

Christine threw him a scathing glare and he was helpless to muffle his laughter as she stormed off mumbling about the creative places he could shove his letter and responsibility.

* * *

Thousands and thousands of miles away in a handsome Oxfordshire manor a man sat in his dimming study, rum in one hand and a rumpled letter in the other. A pitiful sight was he clad in his dressing robe and utterly disheveled. He was seemingly oblivious to the world darkening around him for he did not bother to rise and turn on a lamp, instead letting the blackness creep in until it enshrouded him. His stomach gave a pitiful growl and was met with disregard; days without food had weakened him but still he had no appetite.

Maybe luck would bless him and he'd soon waste away. Blithering dolt that he was, he deserved no less.

Why in God's name had he let her go on that accursed excursion? Never had he intended to allow it in the first place! But she had come to him pleading and arguing and he couldn't deny her. Pathetic. Pithless. Weak. His shortcomings had placed his greatest treasure in mortal peril and it merited punishment. Severe punishment. He would accept any sentence if it would but bring his sweet Christine back safely.

The letter had arrived just four days after she had set off. Anonymous and untraceable, they said. It was a promise to harm him and all that he held dear, including his beloved angel - though, in some small, merciful turn, whomever penned it had threatened a _Christopher_ Daaé; it appeared they did not know the truth. Not yet. At least he had done one worthwhile thing in keeping his daughter solidly out of Society's spotlight, for few knew of her existence other than his closest friends.

Powerless and panicked he had phoned an old chum from youth who had risen through the ranks to secure a position in the Foreign Ministry. Howard Watson had patiently listened and promised to reach out to his contacts. The next morning Gustave received word that someone—a soldier and tracker—had been dispatched to escort Christine back to England. He kept the truth from Watson as well—that Christopher was actually _Christine_ and had no intention of revealing the contrary—mainly because he could not suffer through the judgment and ridicule.

As it was he carried enough guilt for twenty men.

—but what cut him deepest of all, sliced through artery and vein, was that she was oblivious. His poor, darling girl hadn't a clue of the danger she was in, that _he_ had placed her in. And for what? Some fantastic notion that he could make the world a better place? He should never have entered politics, he should never have been so arrogant, so presumptuous to think that he could alter society like a poor imitation of a god.

She would reach Martinique soon, in but a few days time she would step off the ship with no thoughts in her head but those of botany and would pay no heed to the gathering miasma waiting to engulf her. Unless _that_ man, the one whom they had sent, could alert her in time. Which would prevail: light or darkness? Would these villains strike forthwith or later? Would they anticipate the cavalry and dispose of her guardian to get at her?

So many questions and only one certainty: the game was out of his hands.

Now all there was to do was pray and wait.

"Mr Daaé?"

There was a soft knock before the door opened bringing with it a flood of light from the hall. He had never felt more like a creature of darkness than in that moment, like one of the characters from his angel's Gothic novels; he fought the urge to hiss and slink back into the shade.

"Supper is ready, sir. Will you take it in your study?"

No response. Mrs Burns might have thought the room empty had she not heard the faintest sound of paper crumpling. Swallowing, she decided to persist, albeit with prudence - it wouldn't do to offend or come off as impertinent when her employer was in a bad way.

"Mr Daaé, sir, did you hear me?" she ventured.

"Is there no peace to be had in this thrice-damned house?!"

Whatever she had been expecting from the master it was certainly not an outburst of temper. Mr Daaé was as mild as a spring morning and gentle as a lamb, he was as constant as the sea breeze. One would be hard-pressed indeed to find a man of a kinder disposition or more even temperament, but there had been an alarming change in him over the past couple of days.

Gone was the glib, amiable man who treated his staff like people instead of mere chattel put on the earth to serve his whims and who frequently asked after them and their families from the butler to the lowest scullery maid. In his place was this changeable creature who hardly spoke, barely ate, refused to sleep, and drank to excess - the Mr Hyde to his Dr Jekyll.

In two days he hadn't left his study or changed out of his dressing gown. This made his second fit of rage, the first had come yesterday morning when a little maid by the name of Jane had come in to build a fire. The poor child hadn't realized the master was present and had received such a subsequent fright that she was nigh inconsolable for hours afterwards; Mrs Burns had to excuse her for the remainder of the day. Any other time she would have chastised the man, social superior or not, but she knew at present such a move would prove foolhardy.

"Sir?"

"TAKE THE BLASTED TRAY AND LEAVE ME BE!" he roared.

Still reeling, the housekeeper did as she was told without hesitation, closing the door at the same time a glass shattered against the wall. _Something_ was horribly wrong. At first she and the rest of the servants had assumed that this irritable melancholia stemmed from Miss Christine's departure; he had been similarly withdrawn when his daughter had journeyed to America for school but now doubts were beginning to brew. With a sad sigh she returned to the kitchens to pass the news along to the cook, Mrs Reed; the latter would be displeased, none recalled the last time their master had taken nourishment. Starting down the stairs she made a note to offer an extra prayer for Mr Daaé during her nightly routine.

Perhaps the good Lord might achieve what mortals could not.

* * *

**Saint-Pierre - Late April 1902**

Christine eyed herself in the small, dingy looking glass of her room, carefully taking in each of her features, from the large brown eyes to the chestnut curls that now brushed her shoulders, swept back and tied into a neat ponytail at her nape. So far her secret had gone undiscovered. Not that any member of her expedition paid her much notice; and compounding that old Professor Harding was half-blind. Both things had proven godsends in of themselves because they guaranteed she needn't speak much. It was one less potential for suspicion.

Days in the field were arduous, spent in the shadow of a mighty, smoking mountain. To everyone else she was just another toff barely out of boyhood thirsting for adventure before settling down to assume his birth right. Raoul had grown surprisingly accustomed to _Christopher—_ though he could not bring himself to call her by her _nom de guerre_ and settled on referring to her as 'Kit'; he had joked that while her real name was two syllables, her assumed one was just one too many to pronounce.

It had been a fortnight since the balmy afternoon of their arrival. And what a two weeks it had been! She had learned an unbelievable amount in such a short span of time, much more than she could have ever hoped to absorb from textbooks. There was something matchless about field studies, just as mastering a language under a tutor was nothing to being immersed amongst the native speakers. Though her sketches had been admittedly little improved, she was too preoccupied to be overly distressed. Martinique was every bit as exotic as she had envisioned, from the billowing, quaking stack of Mount Peleé to the abundance of greenery flourishing under the tropic sun, it was extraordinary. The volcano frightened her at first but upon a multitude of reassurances that it had not erupted in hundreds of years, Christine ceased to pay it heed.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall coming to a halt in front of her room. Startled, she froze hoping whoever it was would move on. Maybe they were drunk and looking for their room - that wouldn't exactly be novelty around here. Christine concentrated on breathing in an attempt to draw her focus away from the _other_ possibilities induced by an overactive imagination.

While she had not mentioned it to anyone—not even Raoul—about a week ago she had been struck with an odd, portentous sort of feeling. Despite being unable to quite place it she _knew_ it was there either by intuition or instinct, an inky cloud of potent energy, both comforting and precarious, watching her and lurking at the fringes. Christine rolled her eyes when she heard the familiar voice muffled by the wooden barrier. She loosed a sigh of relief, it was only Raoul.

“Good Lord, Kit, are you going to spend all day admiring your reflection? The others grew impatient and left already."

"Yes, yes, Raoul. I am coming!" she called.

He smiled as soon as she stepped out of her room. “Well, well, here you are at last! For a moment I thought I might need to start calling you Dorian."

"Dorian Grey admired himself in a painting not a mirror; Narcissus was the mirror… _or_ more specifically a reflecting pool. Didn’t you ever pay attention to your studies?" Christine retorted cheekily.

"I have no need with you for a friend."

"You flatter me, Raoul."

"What can I say? I am but a humble ignoramus eclipsed by your limitless brilliance, my lord." Raoul gave her a mock bow.

She cuffed him smartly on the upper arm in reply. "Ouch. I've no idea why I invited you, all you do is belittle and abuse me."

His complaint went unremarked. "Where is it that we are going and why with such haste?"

"It is a bar frequented by sailors, fishermen and laborers." Noting the way her nose wrinkled, he continued, "Under normal circumstances I would not set a foot in such a place either, but Hammond told me of how he overheard some workers discussing it. From what he's caught, there is this chap who has been in there every night for the past week; every evening he appears, orders straight spirits and plays the piano in the corner for hours."

"And _why_ exactly is some miscreant drunkard banging away at an off-key piano worth our attention? I daresay you can see much of the same back home were you to hang about most every public house after a certain time."

Raoul scowled, "Precisely for the fact that this isn't merely some drunken clout. The rumor is that he is a former concert pianist flitting through the islands to escape a scorned lover, that he's a true virtuoso, comparable to Mozart or Chopin, and that his music is a gift from either angels or the devil."

"Why, Raoul, I had no idea you were such a romantic!" she teased on a laugh. 

"My family _is_ French, after all. It's in my blood."

And so the duo continued towards the fabled bar and its mysterious attraction like children in search of pirate's gold, the sounds of their exchange still audible as they walked on. From the light affability of their ribbing it was apparent that neither had the slightest inkling they were presently under scrupulous study.

Darkness shifted and rippled birthing something truly formidable. A wraith, perhaps - it was impossible to say. Anyone who caught a glimpse of it might label it thus once fear's grip released their mind and the chill subsided from their blood. Whatever it was, spectre or figment, it stalked from the shadows like a great black feline. Watching, scrutinizing, _waiting_ for the perfect opportunity to pounce. None would be the wiser until the eleventh-hour was upon them, until they were staring into the creature's burning eyes.

It would come tonight.

He could feel it from the change in wind, the restless shifting of air. Tonight he would strike after an endlessly protracted, empty sennight of loitering. Head and body were ready, both coiled tighter than the rope stashed up his sleeve. The operation had been set in motion and promised success.

Fortune evidently approved of diligence and planning as she was in his favor tonight. Everything would be less complicated than anticipated. Yes, fortune _had_ indubitably blessed him, for tonight prey would unwittingly seek out predator.

A week had passed since he had landed on the island of Martinique: a lush, green picturesque paradise. Really, it was a pity he was there on assignment not holiday, elseways he might have enjoyed it - though he would certainly _never_ own it. Utopia or no, he had not time for leisurely appreciation.

Days were spent planning, preparing, and procuring while nights were spent seeking, spying, and scheming. When he wasn't hoarding supplies and mapping out the terrain, he looked in on his target. Upon first glance he surmised that the boy was everything he predicted: foppish, frail, bookish, and slight. It would be a miracle if he didn't have to carry the dotard the entire way. Judgment turned to resentment and then to dislike. From a distance, he seethed and hated and _pondered_.

Would the world truly mourn another dainty weakling strutting about from Club to opium den in his flamboyant frippery?

Sleep-starved meditations told him no. Let the will of nature preside without interference. Perhaps he could stay here and settle himself, wake up each morning to the calling of seabirds and warm sunlight. It was tempting—but alas, the splendor would eventually wear thin and that volcano left him distinctly unsettled; intuition alerted him that disaster was on the horizon and he preferred to not be near when it hit.

Still, more than once he envisaged botching the mission. Easily done enough. He was not the only one with eyes on the boy. The enemy was there also, lying in wait, gathering for an ambush. They would strike soon. Better that he did first.

Terribly amateur as they were they proved offensively effortless to follow. His second night trailing them had led him to the tavern. Squalid and seedy, it was an ideal spot for whores, thieves, gamblers, and ruffians. Neither he nor the gang of thugs stood out amidst the sordid crowd. He had overheard a plethora of information from his place behind the neglected little piano, information on their numbers, plans, names of leaders, and location of operations. His task promised to be a pathetic farce it appeared.

 _C'est la vie_ , he supposed as he glided along, his destination silhouetted in moonlight. Already he could hear the tawdry laughter of prostitutes, ribald conversations, and raucous shouts of brawls. Tonight could not be more desirable. A keen leer twisted his lips. There was no need to rush, he could spare time to savor the hunt. He was a patient man when the situation necessitated it. Besides, he had a few things to do yet, he could afford to return within the hour. His competition would be absent, awaiting a shipment of weapons and further instructions from their puppeteers. Fate could not have chosen a better moment.

The boy was inadvertently walking into his trap, lured by the music of some bizarre performer, by _his_ music.

—and disappoint he would not.

**o o o**

It was the type of establishment she had read about in books but had no idea existed in reality. Although, she presumed writers had to have taken inspiration from _somewhere_. Dingy, debauched, and rife with the sort of crowd one might find in London's most despicable slums, it was an alien world. The stench of stale, acrid smoke hung thick in the air alongside the smell of cheap perfume, rum and sin. Layered grime of indeterminable color and origin coated every surface with a greasy film - likely harboring every disease imaginable. 

"I cannot believe you actually _wanted_ to come here." she hissed at Raoul as they took two seats at a shabby, isolated corner table; she pursed her lips, "I don't suppose they'll have anything of a decent vintage."

He indicated to a barmaid, who sauntered over and bent at the best angle to display her ample bosom. Christine looked away but Raoul grinned slyly. "Two tankards of ale, please, lovely." The wench gave a saucy wink and returned with the order, as soon as she had left again he turned, "Come now, Kit, where's your sense of adventure?"

"Far from this wretched hive of amorality, I assure you."

Her discomfort grew as the night wore on, made more so by the realization that every single woman in the room was a... _well, harlot_. If papa discovered she had visited such a place the shame would be unbearable. A proper lady would have turned and ran; this was no place for her.

Ah, but it _was_ an acceptable locale for a boy, for strapping, young Christopher...

"I don't hear any musical prodigies of legend, unless you count that redhead singing over there as one." Christine stated tartly.

"Oh, he will show up, I wouldn't expect he keeps a schedule." He chuckled at his own wit, “Besides, we've not yet been here for an hour, try to relax. How is your beverage?"

"Tolerable, I suppose. I've not had anything other than wine before."

"Excellent! A night of memories, then. You know, it's not so bad here. There's a kind of appealing freedom to it all."

"The appealing freedom of being a reprobate or strumpet?"

Raoul shook his head, nursing his second ale, "You, my friend, are much too austere; relax and you will find life more enjoyable."

"I _do_ enjoy life, admittedly not every aspect but—"

The rest of her words were lost in the gust of music that tore through the room extinguishing voices like candles. It was not at all the typical bawdy tune one might expect in a port-side sump yet not a soul complained. Christine would not have been surprised if the world itself had completely halted on its axis, the entire bar appeared to be under a spell, charmed by the music like snakes or children following the Pied Piper; business went on as before, albeit at a calmer, quieter pace.

Tchaikovsky, maybe, she could not say with any surety. As quickly as it had come the aural pleasure was at an end and dozens of patrons breathlessly awaited the next blissful dosage.

Thus the trance persisted for hours, melody after melody, composition after composition. This was the music of the swell, of opulent concert halls and palaces: Liszt, Chopin, Saint-Saëns, Beethoven, Grieg, Haydn, and countless others she couldn't name.

Christine was exceedingly familiar with music, she had been raised on the folk tunes of papa's violin and favored piano herself. Most of these pieces she had heard, even played, before but never had she witnessed them played like this. It was as if this person understood each individual variation, coda, arpeggio, accidental, each element of the music on an intimate level. She wondered what business someone of such enormous talent had in, what for all purposes, resembled one of Blackbeard's favored haunts. Perchance he was just another wayward soul trapped in this spirit-soaked purgatory. Queerer still was that with each note, each chord, each crescendo her feeling of being watched magnified until she was suffocating, filled with that needling sensation wherein every hair rose on end and every muscle stood tense and at attention.

Was this what her early ancestors experienced as they foraged in the midst of savage, prehistoric fauna? Just as they must have been she was hit with the sudden instinct for flight. Minutes (or eternities) passed and the pounding inside her ears reached a dizzying pinnacle, wrenching her stomach and threatening to loose the bitter ale she had drank. One thing was abundantly clear: she _had_ to get out, had to leave before she crumbled into powder and mingled with the dust on the floor. She stood up so fast that she nearly lost her balance.

"Is there something the matter?" Raoul regarded her with a tiny frown.

"I _just—_  I've a terrible headache and am in need of some air."

"All right, let me finish my drink and we'll go back to the inn." Through his concern she could detect a hint of disappointment at cutting the night short.

"No, it's fine, really. You stay here and I will go."

"Ridiculous! Do you think I'm going to let you walk alone at this hour? I made a promise, no ... _oath_ to your father that you would come to no harm and I intend to keep to it."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. Men and their misplaced chivalry; she hadn't the tolerance for it. "Who is going to molest a man on a midnight stroll? If you're that concerned, lend me your pistol."

"My what?"

Narrowly resisting the urge to scream, she forced a civil tone. "Did you not think I'd notice? Loan it to me, it should deter any criminals; I'll leave it in the drawer of your room."

Had he not already imbibed a tot of rum in addition to his third ale Raoul would have refused her request, but his eyes had grown glassy, his speech had begun to blend, and his mind was yielding to the alcohol. A tense interval ensued before he relented and handed her the weapon under the table.

"Careful to stay in the light." he said, and, putting a finger to his lips followed with, “Our little secret.”

"Our little secret..." she repeated with a smile, tucking it into her belt before slipping away from Gehenna and the music that sought to drain her soul. If she had stayed to listen, she would have noticed that the melody ceased immediately after she departed.

Finally able to breathe freely she sucked a gulp of delightful night air and set off towards the modest, little inn. Five minutes into her trek she quickened her pace. Rather than comforting as it had been initially, the evening started to close in all around her with solid, tenebrous walls.

She was almost running now. Panic stole in and took ahold of her every sense. Here was a monster beside that building; there was a savage beast behind that gas lamp; everywhere she looked there was some creature hungering for virgin flesh.

Her building alarm was not for nothing—

Christine then became acutely aware she was being followed. Deep down she knew it was useless to flee from whatever foe dogged her. Fighting was the only option. Steeling herself all the while, she hustled down an alley making a handful of sharp turns through the winding back roads of Saint-Pierre, eventually ducking into an abandoned shed and the welcoming arms of darkness.

Web now spun, she lay in wait for her prey like the clever black widow.

**o o o**

Where had that blasted boy gone?

This infernal brat was more trouble than he was worth. Erik moved ahead soundlessly, carefully keeping to the shadows. He stopped next to a shed to recollect his wits. There was still no sign of his quarry and the soil was far too dry for tracking by moonlight.

Damnation! How could the boy have escaped?

It was as if the lad had disappeared into thin air. Mayhap he wasn't the only illusionist present and _then again..._

His eyes flew back to the wooden structure he had overlooked. Played for a fool, the deception dawned on him mere tenths of a second before the dull thud. Pain blossomed outwards from the back of his head increasing in intensity until it eclipsed everything and the world around him melted away. 


	5. Dismay mixt with obdurate pride and stedfast hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine and Erik meet at last. Under dire circumstances they are forced to work together but first impressions are not so easily overlooked and neither has made a favorable one upon the other.

As he opened his eyes the first thing Erik noticed was the throbbing at the back of his skull and the second was the rough rope binding his wrists and ankles - lastly the blow had affected his vision, which now wavered and swam. For a fleeting instant he wondered if he was back within the bowels of the Shah’s palace but the air was far too humid for Persia. That possibility ruled out the original question remained. 

Where, then, was he?

From the sweet muskiness of rotting wood intermixed with earthy notes of moss and dirt, he surmised that he was in some sort of dilapidated building. Suddenly it came to him. That thrice-damned shed, of course! But, how exactly?

Acumen still dulled by the resounding ache in his head, he clumsily tried to piece together where everything had gone wrong - brief memories, foggy snippets, were drudged to the surface. He recalled trailing the wretch and his friend, a room at an inn, the tavern, playing that downtrodden instrument, flushing his prey like a rat from a hole, giving chase, losing the boy, _and—_

Humiliation and abhorrence raced through him, numbing the pain and sharpening his focus. _He_ , a paradigm of espionage, had been bested by an artless schoolboy who hadn't seen a day outside of his bubble of privilege until this month. It was worse than pathetic. The tang of shame filled his mouth coating his tongue in a thick, pungent bile.

Hatred took hold then. Hubris did not shatter easily so instead he turned to hatred for comfort. Erik hated the boy, to be sure, hated him for everything and nothing at the same time. He should have left the little villain to the wolves but now, pride wounded, his tenacity was stoked anew. His quarry would be located even if it carried him over mountain and through river, young Christopher Daaé would know no peace. Truth be told, he had not expended a great deal of effort thus far -  _that_ was soon to change. Wherever he was, there was nowhere the boy could hide. Two weeks spent studying various maps had committed every inch of the island to memory.

Then again, _perhaps_ he need not look very far.

The barest noise announced he was not as alone as previously thought. He could not help but begrudgingly laud the child's bravery. Very few people would have lingered, but audacity oft gave way to foolishness.

Silently he waited, loathing evolving into intrigue. He made no attempt to loosen the ropes that bound him, which—he conceded—were surprisingly well tied.

Waited and waited with growing amusement until at last his companion spoke.

" _Who_ are you and _why_ are you following me?!"

His voice had a clear, almost _pretty_ , quality to it, like the chiming of church bells. The register was rather high for a boy past adolescence - although, it was impossible to say for sure as fear had a tendency to alter such things and the boy reeked of it. Stunned as he was, it took him a spell to recognize the question had not been asked in English.

"Answer me!" Erik blinked slowly, trying to regain his eyesight. It had cleared somewhat allowing him to discern the outline of the gun barrel trained directly at his forehead.

"I _do_ hope your aim is superior to your French or you'd be better served bludgeoning me with that; you have at least proven fairly adept at the latter." His reply issued forth in impeccable French, punctuated by a roll of his eyes.

" _Do—_ do you speak English?" came the hesitant query. 

"Among _other_ things..." 

Christine gawked at her captive. She had assumed most people would panic in his situation spilling their darkest secrets and pleading for their lives—not him, evidently. The blasé, collected manner in which he addressed her was as unexpected as it was unnerving. Whoever this was, he was no ordinary man. Lord only knew what might have befallen her had their positions been reversed and she was the one tied on the floor of the shed; the idea ran cold down her spine. 

"Who are you?" she repeated in English, slightly grateful she could give up French. Unlike the other well-bred girls she had not ever had a knack for it, her tongue was better suited to Greek and Latin.

No answer. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled; helplessness evolved.

"There is a pistol p-pointed at your face. It might be wise to talk lest I run out of patience."

"You make a decidedly poor interrogator, perchance you should reiterate _without_ that tremolo of fright in your voice." His air of self-assurance churned her stomach. Here was exactly the kind of smug man she detested. Even if they had met under benign circumstances Christine decided she would have found him insufferable.

"I am  _not_ afraid!" she bit out hastily, _too_ hastily, "I know you were following me and I swear to God I _will_ shoot you if you don't tell me who you are!"

“Better...” A sound of approval rumbled low in his throat. " _Well_ , in spite of your empty threats, that is. We both know you are not going to shoot me. If that had been your intention you would have done so already. Now, cease the inane posturing and put down _that ..._ " He squinted, pausing in consideration, "... Modéle 1892 revolver. A fine choice - the St Etienne 8mm has quite a lot of firing power, I daresay you could kill me easily were the chamber not empty."

"YOU KNOW _NOTHING_!" Christine's terror rushed forth in a strangled yell. She wondered if this stranger could sense her fear as predators could, if he was simply toying with her, playing with his food. The image was burned into her mind with alacrity: him, a sleek, ebony panther circling her, fangs bared, searching for a weakness to exploit.

“Perhaps, not... however, I do believe a firearm must be loaded in order to effectively shoot someone."

Her subterfuge had been called. The pistol was just for show, a measure of deterrent in the event she was approached on the walk back; Raoul hadn't given her any bullets and she cursed him for it wishing he had provided her with but one. A single bullet was better than nothing. While she had never held a gun before tonight and knew not how to use one, she supposed skill was irrelevant were one to shoot a person point blank between the eyes.

And, on the subject of guns, how had he managed to guess what kind she held to his head?

Luck, most likely. Yes, that was it, a lucky guess. There was no other way, nothing conceivable at least.

It was not as if—

Despite acknowledging the ridiculousness of it, Christine could not shake the distinct, niggling unease that he could see in the dark like some kind of animal - a notion doubtlessly owing to the irrationality which accompanied anxiety. Human eyes did _not_  work the same as those of wolves or tigers, as a scholar she was positive of that fact. Still, something was off about him and she was glad of her foresight to utilize the rope in the shed. 

"Y-You're mistaken. And, I  _will_ act on my threat if you do not do as I say!"

Years of rigorous education had sculpted her into a person of logic, to her every phenomenon had a scientific explanation but the feeling that she was in the presence of someone—or _something—_ otherworldly was multiplying. She was hit with the instinctual urge to flee, run from this unnatural man until her legs gave out yet the melodic power of his voice kept her in place. That voice was another oddity in of itself, simultaneously haunting, deadly, and beautiful.

Who—or _what—_ was he? The question hounded her ferociously and come hell or high water she resolved to uncover the answer.

"Your _'threats'_ are less convincing than your French and pitifully so, intimidation is patently _not_ your forté." He almost sounded bored with the situation. 

Suddenly everything went eerily silent - half-crazed she contemplated if he willed it so. The chorus of insects stopped as if the entire island had been doused by a smothering blanket. They were suspended in a void of quietude, a heavy and lonely emptiness reminding her that she was but an insignificant plankter within the ocean's vastness. Time was agonizingly stretched and pulled and she gripped her head to keep it from bursting under the weight of it all.

Then all at once the quiet broke, all at once there were _other_ noises flooding the air: sounds of distant yelling, screams, crashing interspersed with loud pops. 

Maybe it was a brawl. Fights occurred with regularity in establishments such as those, the combination of drink and rowdiness a veritable powder keg awaiting the flame of any minor slight. Yet the creeping tendril of fear wrapping itself around her brain stem indicated a darker, more worrying explanation. Desperate for the alleviation found in distraction she addressed _him_. 

”More of your friends?" she inquired, unable to keep the quiver from her voice.

"Mine? _Hardly._ " He scoffed, "I work alone."

That complicated matters to be sure. Her pulse jumped and her palms began to sweat. Mayhap he was lying. She  _hoped_ he was lying. "Who are they, then, if not with you?"

"I should think _that_ obvious."

"So they're after you, are they? If that is the case I'll be on my way; I've no wish to interfere in the feuds of criminals."

He let out a chuckle cloaked in black malice. "Ever so righteous, are we not? Alas, _no_ , they aren't after _me_. Come, boy, I was told you were _competent_." This last was drawn out, the skepticism tangible.

—was told?

She put that aside for later analysis, a tidal bore of nervousness rushed over her; exhaling sharply through her nostrils she forced calm - there was a more pressing mystery afoot. 

"If they're not chasing you then what—"

"Good God, are you in need of an illustration?! They are after _you_ ; it is _you_ they wish to harm not I!”

After _her_? How utterly preposterous! Why would anybody be after her? No one had noticed, let alone held a grudge against, her. She had been overlooked the entirety of the expedition and doubted anyone outside of Raoul and Professor Harding even knew of her existence.

"Why would they be after me? I've not done anything to offend nor made any enemies here."

The shouts were not as far away now - on the contrary they seemed to be approaching. 

There was not a speck of doubt in Erik's mind as to what was causing the far-off commotion. Apparently the idea to act tonight had not been uniquely his and judging from the direction and volume of the noise, their time was dwindling—and quickly. The hired gang consisted of five—that he had seen—all armed but with what he knew not - a bit of an excess for a twig of a boy with no exceptional skill or knowledge of the terrain. But, more men increased the odds of success; it was an admirable level of forethought for this otherwise illiterate, poorly-washed bunch of troglodytes.

In his head he hurriedly worked through the calculations. He had faced worse odds in the past. If he could catch them off-guard in an ambush he could dispatch them one-by-one. This was the best solution and one he had employed on several occasions beforehand. Although on said previous occasions he had not been saddled with the responsibility of another person, an inept one at that. The boy could only promise to be a hindrance, to expect him to fight was a notion laughable as it was suicidal. 

—not that he was able to do any fighting either bound as he was. 

Their chances were becoming more hopeless by the second. He _had_ to get free—and, this infuriating child had to be the one to do it. 

"You might think to look for a shovel, boy."

"What for?" came the confused reply.

"So that you may dig each of us a proper grave since you insist upon this asinine exercise in time-wasting. Cut me free so that we both may have a chance at survival.“

It was her turn to laugh snidely at his expense. "Cut _you_ free? The man who was following me and will not give me so much as a name? Not even a simpleton would be _that_ foolish."

"Listen, _boy_ , my patience is wearing thin." His tone darkened considerably, the steely note within made her draw back slightly, "Surely even you are not deluded enough to believe the odds are in your favor. Or, was it your intent to fight these brutes with an unloaded revolver and a few sticks?”

More shouts. This time close enough to discern individual voices. Christine did not have an answer but nevertheless resented his logic. A decision did have to be made and _soon_  - she hated him for that too. 

“Won’t be long now..." He spoke dispassionately as if commenting on the weather or the outcome of a horse race; his statement only made her angrier and more frustrated at her impotence.

"I'll consider freeing you _if_ you tell me who you are and why I should trust you." It was the best compromise she could manage with fear muddling her brain, threatening to paralyze and asphyxiate her.

"You truly are a marvel to behold, a rare, new form of idiocy. Do you honestly think the time right for introductions? It is a wonder you survived past childhood. Cut me free or I _will_ do it myself."

"If you can free yourself then why haven't you?"

"I could, _yes_ , but then I would lose your trust and despite my indifference on the matter, it is paramount that I have it."

Well, she had not anticipated that response.

Was it psychological manipulation to lower her guard, to trick her into freeing him? Then again, why would he give a damn about earning her trust if he meant her harm? Furthermore, why would he have chosen to stay here and converse instead of escaping or killing her? Maybe he was one of those deranged murderers who took pleasure in prolonging the experience; maybe it was a delay until reinforcements arrived; maybe it was all a ruse. _Or maybe_ he was being truthful and could help. Regardless, the decision hadn't become any more straightforward, if anything it was harder with the addition of these new variables.

The shouts were nearer, near enough to overhear bits and pieces of the horrible things they spouted. Even with her meager grasp of the French language she could tell that these were not allies— _and_ they were scant yards away. 

"It appears you have run out of options. Trust me, free me, and I will guarantee your safety." He shrugged, " _Or_ , you could attempt to bargain with them if you prefer. Make your choice now, boy.”

She was damned no matter what, whatever she chose she could not win. Christine had taken an immediate dislike to this haughty, crass man and yet there was a queer measure of security in his voice, an unnameable something that begged trust; she knew she would get no such assurances from the others. Like it or not, her sole recourse was to put faith in her eccentric captive and pray he did not turn on her. 

"I have no way to cut the ropes." she admitted numbly, gnawing at her lip.

"There is a knife sheathed in my left boot. Take care not to cut yourself."

With an unladylike swear she did as instructed cautiously extricating the blade, then, in a single upwards motion sliced through his bindings.

He was on his feet in a soundless instant, the knife wrenched from her hands. Christine shielded her head and neck, bracing herself for the inevitable attack. It never came. Instead there was a curious strangled, gurgling noise and her eyes flew open. She was alone in the shed. Head thumping with a cocktail of dread and uncertainty, she took a deep breath stepping out the door and stumbling. 

Inadvertently she looked down at the impediment and regretted it forthwith. A man lay motionless on the ground at her feet his throat sliced open, thick, crimson blood bubbled from the wound in a steady pulse. Christine screwed her eyes shut so tightly it hurt, wishing the sight away. But it was too late, the scene was burned onto the insides of her eyelids. No matter how many times she tried to tell herself it was an illusion, it grew less convincing with each repetition. Forever would she be haunted by the image of death. There was not a substance strong enough to scour her mind nor a place she could withdraw to escape its grisly mien. A voice, raised in acrimony reached her ears:

"Are you _entirely_ fucking useless?! Open your goddamn eyes and take this!"

Before she had a chance to process such obscene language something cold and metal was thrust into her hands - a pistol, a revolver like the one currently tucked into her belt. Without asking she knew it to be loaded. Another instrument of death. She stared at the weapon resting in palms that did not seem attached to her body; it was enormously heavy, so heavy she felt it weighing her down making her sink into the earth.

For the next few minutes she was frozen in unflappable shock as men crumpled at the hands of her prisoner. _Two. Three. Four._  All dispatched with ruthless efficiency, some in total silence. It was a nightmare, it _had_ to be.This was surely all in her mind, soon she would wake up safe in her little inn bed _..._

One villain was left: a huge, hulking brute with stringy hair and filthy clothes. He and the dark-haired man were battling over a knife, their strength apparently matched. The struggle played out in slow motion, a macabre waltz to the death. Legs locked around each other, shoulders collided, elbows dug into tender spots and she watched with the same detachment reserved for a stage play; she was a part of the events and then she _wasn't,_ just another audience member distantly watching the action unfold.

"Shoot him for Christ's sake! _Shoot him!_ " cried the one pinned against a tree, his own knife being forced towards his heart by the swarthy fiend.

The blade was so close, close enough to kiss skin. A quick jab and it would be over. Just like the first man, the life would pour from his body, his soul flowing out and staining the ground, leaving behind an empty, glassy-eyed husk. It was a peculiar feeling watching last moments that weren't one's own, glimpsing Death hovering nearby awaiting his due. Could _he_ see it as well, feel the chill breath of the Reaper at his neck? Would he give in or fight until the last? Christine continued to stand there in this morbidly voyeuristic fashion, the reality of the situation still removed from her comprehension. 

This was not real. This _could not_ be real. She would awaken any second.

It took the bellow of pain ripping through her, ricocheting off her ear canals, to make it sink in. This _was_ happening, it was no fantasy, no dream. She wasawake and lucid and present. One of these men would die tonight and she had the power to intervene, to decide which it would be.

Shaking from head to foot with somber purpose she picked up a rock, aimed and hit the lout smack in the back of the skull. Baffled by the impact he spun and started towards her menacingly, perverse glee hewn onto his crude, primitive features. Any pride in the surety of her aim drained away, replaced by sheer terror. He was after _her_ now, what would she do? The pistol, of course! The idea came to her with abrupt clarity. Her trembling turned violent as she wrapped her hands round the grip and raised the gun; one finger slid into the trigger-guard, curling about the trigger within: cold, metal, unforgiving, a lever of death. She inhaled and squeezed.

Nothing happened.

A second try met with the same result. Damnation! The trigger was jammed, the weapon refusing to fire. Her foe almost upon her, Christine straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. At least she would die with dignity instead of cowering. Suddenly the man lurched to a halt, his eyes bulging. She thought she glimpsed something around his neck before there was a nauseating crack and he fell motionless on the spot.

Alive. She did not know how or why but she was alive, the lone living thing amidst a collection of corpses. Detached, she watched the bodies disappear, dragged into darkness by Death until only she was left. 

“Come,"

An irresistible entreaty closed over her alongside a large hand and she was tugged into the foliage, pulled down a winding jungle path; leaves slapped at her arms and legs; twigs and branches scratched her cheeks and caught in her hair; knotted roots and vines tangled round her ankles. Christine’s feet carried her ever-forward blindly, willed by whatever force held her; breathing became a challenge, sweat poured down her body from the exertion. Up or down? She could not distinguish one from the other. 

As she hovered on the verge of collapse she came to a prompt stop. Her continued inertia brought her crashing into something solid; it let out a grunt. So, it was a _someone_ rather than a something. That’s when she recollected... it was _him_ , her the dark-haired man. 

" _Why—_ why did we stop?” she panted.

"Supplies."

Eyeing the landscape dubiously, Christine pursed her lips, " _Supplies?_ We're in middle of the jungle, or hadn't you noticed, Mowgli?"

No verbal answer came. Instead the hand from earlier encircled her wrist and she was led once more through a damp mass of plants, stepping up just in time to avoid tripping. She yelped in alarm at the rasp of a match and ensuing surge of light.

"Quiet!" a voice hissed.

Christine rubbed her eyes in an effort to adjust to the change in brightness and banish the multi-colored dots littering her vision. The area grew steadily more illuminated until her surroundings swam into dim focus. She was in a shack of some kind, long-since abandoned if the abundance of cobwebs, dirt, and general disrepair were any indication. Movement in her periphery reminded her that she was not alone. Heart racing, she looked upon her captive-turned-rescuer for the first time.

Earlier it had been dark and she had been too preoccupied to offer any intense scrutiny; she knew only that he was large and heavy, requiring every ounce of strength she had to drag a few feet. Later when she freed him, she had only caught glimpses of his back. Now there were no such hindrances, now she could see him clearly.

Her foremost thought was how tall he was, his head brushing the roof of the tiny hovel. Her eyes swept down his body, following the broad shoulders that tapered to a lean waist and hips, erring on the side of thin. She paled when he turned, her eyes focusing on the blood spattering the front of his shirt. He whirled away, yanking the ruined garment over his head before switching it for a clean one. Christine tried mightily to avert her gaze from the taut muscles of his back and the odd shadows that crisscrossed the flesh; she had never seen a man's exposed skin before—not papa’s, not Raoul’s—and mused at the unrecognizable flutter in her stomach. 

Whatever the emotion was it increased when he faced her again, sweeping a hand through his inky hair in an attempt to make himself more presentable. He was not quite as young as her but could not be more than fifteen years her senior, probably closer to ten. There was an exceedingly irritating arrogance about him, evident even in the dim glow of the lanterns, in his posture, stance and very aura - indeed, his every feature. And, his face... she gasped; his face was hidden behind a black mask extending from forehead to below his nose like a highwayman. Perhaps that title was not so inaccurate. She gulped upon realizing that he too examined her, his eyes the color of a stormy sea and his interest acute. 

"Are you injured?" She blinked dumbly before registering the question was meant for her.

"No. Are y-you?"

"I am fine."

—much too pretty...

Much too pretty to be a boy with those large eyes, fair complexion, and refined features. Extremely effeminate - a little dandy if ever he saw one. Not excessively short but skinny and slight of frame, his clothes bagged about him pathetically. A boy wearing the garments of a man. He could not be more than twenty, the genuine astonishment emanating from his dark irises was comical, like a sheltered lad from a pirate novel who had his first exhilarating taste of fighting, drinking, and adventure.

"Here," A pistol was extended towards him, "It's jammed, I think."

Erik took the weapon, inspecting the Webley Mk IV revolver fondly - his only such memory from the damn war.

"You tried to use it?" he asked with mild intrigue.

"Yes, but it wouldn't fire. Else how would I have known it is jammed?" Christine returned testily.

"Did you cock the hammer?"

"I pulled the trigger."

He smirked and nodded, "As I thought then, the problem lies not with the gun but with he who wields it."

"I apologize if my knowledge of firearms is lacking. Since I'm neither soldier nor scoundrel, I've never held a pistol before tonight."

" _That_ is plainly apparent."

A scowl lit her face. It was worse than imagined. He was repugnant, _completely_ intolerable. She couldn't stand him and yet something told her she would be forced to endure his presence for more than the next few hours; the very idea turned her innards.

"Are you at last going to reveal the mystery of your identity and reason for following me or must I linger in ignorance?”

"You know, I more fancy myself a Bagheera than a Mowgli." he said, ignoring the query and hearkening back to her earlier comment.  _I can see why,_ she thought, noting his feline stealth. 

"Honestly, I am dashed you understood the reference. I wasn't aware criminals even knew their letters, much less spent their leisure time reading Kipling."

"On the contrary, Kipling is a favorite among rapists, thieves, extortionists, and murderers; it's his ease of prose. Though, in my experience most French desperadoes prefer Flaubert while Russians are partial to Dostoyevsky."

Was he jesting? She couldn't tell and decided to go along.

"You mean because both Dostoyevsky and Flaubert's works are bleak and might drive a man to criminality?"

"Precisely. Bleak but well-written, consider _Madame Bovary_ and _Crime and Punishment_." His eyes narrowed, "Is _that_ what you believe me to be, a lowly criminal?"

"How should I know _what or who_ you are?! Had I figured that out, I needn't consistently inquire!" Christine snapped.

"I doubt you would believe what I told you. _Thank you_ , but I think I'll not waste my breath, boy."

The air left her lungs in a great huff. " _Fine._ " She crossed her arms over her chest, her frown deepening, "May I know your name at the very least then?"

"Erik." 

With that he moved to the corner where a pile of assorted stuff lay and began to rifle through it. Though the light of the lanterns did not quite reach the jumble, it looked like more than what a single night’s stay necessitated. Again Christine was anxious. What were this Erik’s designs for her?

"Shouldn't you ask mine? Common courtesy dictates that you—"

"You will find that illiterate blackguards such as myself have no need for the insipid decrees of polite society, young Daaé." Christine missed the bedroll he tossed at her and it bounced off her midsection, knocking the wind from her chest. But she was far too stupefied to pay mind to her aching torso.

“W-What did you call me?"

Erik cocked his head inquisitively. "Do you prefer Christopher?”

"H-How do you know my name?" Her voice emerged as little more than a squeak.

Hang nerves, she was terrified! Who in the hell was this man and _how_ did he know her name? _Not your name_ , her brain amended, _not your real one_. There was the tiniest trace of a silver lining amidst hopelessness - he knew neither her true name nor her secret. And he would _never_ know, she vowed. Her throat constricted at the prospect. Were he to discover it her fate might be one worse than death.

... let Erik keep his secrets and she'd keep hers.

"Get as much sleep as you can, I will not hear excuses come morning."

"M-Morning?" she repeated as if she had never in her life heard the word.

"Yes, we leave before the sun rises."

"Leave? We two? _Together?_ " 

In two strides he was towering over her and crushing her arms in a vice-like grip. " _If_ you persist in this imbecilic manner, I shall gag you, bind you and drag you wherever I damn well please." he snarled. His grasp slackened gradually until he released her, “Now, young master Daaé, I _suggest_ you get some sleep."

Frightened half out of her wits she did as directed, dropping to the ground and unfurling her bedroll. Rather than settling in she gazed at it blankly. During their hectic flight through the jungle and subsequent conversation her mind had been elsewhere. Now with no further distractions it returned to the gloom, to  _death_. Her makeshift bed transformed into a corpse, throat slashed and bleeding, its glazed, lifeless eyes vacant. Nauseated, Christine turned her head away so rapidly that her neck cramped.

"I don't think I can sleep." The words were uttered softly, barely a whisper. 

"Did you expect a feather bed at the Carlton?" he sneered, peering down at her loftily.

Antipathy finally burst free from its dam. How dare he mock her, this creature who murdered without a care? Who was he to judge her? She doubted he had a beating heart in his breast, much less a soul. How could he begin to understand the horrors that assailed her each time she closed her eyes, that would haunt her until her own dying day? Hot tears lapped at her eyes until she relented allowing them to pour down her cheeks.

”I DON’T CARE WHERE I SLEEP! Do you think this has _anything_ to do with comfort?! It would not matter if I was offered a mattress of clouds and eiderdown! Every time I close my eyes I see—“

" _Death._ " Erik finished grimly.

She wiped her face with her sleeve angrily but didn't speak.

Monster: a versatile descriptor where he was concerned. It could be applied to his face, past, temper, personality, and actions, every aspect of his person, really. Observing the crying, broken thing in front of him—that drawn face, those tortured brown eyes, the shoulders slumped with defeat—Erik cursed himself inwardly with the foulest, most vulgar oaths imaginable. 

Yet had he done nothing, the lad would be in a far worse predicament. Unfortunate as the outcome was in time he would come to accept that it had been justified. It was not a question of mercy but of kill or be killed. Remorse softened his calloused heart infusing some humanity into his tone.

“I apologize that you saw what you did. It was not my intention to frighten you."

"D-Do you ever stop seeing their faces?"

"Yes." He regarded her for a moment, his expression sincere, "Would you like something to help you sleep?"

A pause and a weary nod. Erik rummaged through his rucksack until he found a case of small, neatly packed vials.

"Here. It's a decoction containing valerian root." Christine took the bottle and analyzed it critically, turning it over in her fingers and holding it up to the lantern.

"It is not poison if that's your concern." he said with a touch of coldness.

"I know. Poison doesn't seem your modus operandi."

—and so it wasn't.

Although, if the boy knew of his time in Persia, he might not be so quick to accept - not that any of the poisons Erik had synthesized were for his own purposes. But he supposed that hardly mattered, regardless of whether or not _he_ had relied on them they had still been used for the function of torture and death.

Christine threw back the mixture her face contorting at the taste, removed her boots and slipped into the bedroll. Already her eyes had begun to grow heavy. The draught was a potent one and soon she was drifting on the fringes of slumber, her mind wonderfully tranquil except for one, minute thing. 

"Erik?" It felt funny using the Christian name of a man she had just met, so _intimate_ ; and much to her embarrassment, she found that she rather liked it.

"Young Daaé?"

"I never thanked you for saving my life."

She was unable to decipher the individual words of his reply, only hazy mumbles, but nevertheless allowed the warm richness of his voice to wash over her as she sank fully into the waters of sleep.


	6. Dark and cheerless is the morn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning brings clarity and conflict for Christine as she learns of Erik’s plans for her and for Raoul as he comes to terms with last night’s poor decisions.

**28 April - Day 1**

Only when he was positive the lad was asleep did Erik dare leave the shelter. Christopher lay poised on his right side, a look of contentment on his face, hands tucked beneath his chin; a few errant wisps of hair had slipped loose and rested upon unblemished alabaster skin. The boy was a portrait of innocence. In sleep he looked so small, so frail, so young, so out of place in this harsh world.

And yet there was an inner-strength, a wildness about him, a fierce undercurrent in a seemingly glassy sea - one he had only just began to tap into. Erik was reminded of himself in a sense, before he had traded the greenness of youth for adventure.

Satisfied that his companion would not be stirring any time soon he stole silently from the hut. There were several hours yet until dawn. He was glad the boy had accepted the sleeping draught, grateful for the window it afforded him to tie things up, as it were. Making no more noise than the humming and chirping insects, he stalked back up the jungle path to the outskirts of Saint-Pierre grabbing a shovel from a plantation shed along the way.

Minutes later he was standing in the place he had temporarily hidden the bodies. He hadn't intended on killing tonight. Naturally he had been prepared, he always was, but had planned to slip into the underbrush with the boy long before the miscreants had gotten through their first round of cups.

Ideally the pair of them should have absconded prior to anyone being the wiser but reality was keen to diverge. Erik had not anticipated the enduring presence of that thrice-damned Raoul boy but soon learned, much to his immense displeasure, that the two were inseparable. So he was forced to alter his strategy to cleave the duo apart. In the end he had succeeded but not without personal cost, his head was still tender and they had narrowly escaped with their lives.

The boy truly was more trouble than he was worth.

Digging was blessedly easy at least, the volcanic soil loose and loamy and the night air pleasant. One grave gradually became four; by the fifth sweat poured down his back in rivulets, his hands were chafed and his muscles ached. He grimaced as the saltiness made contact with the wound on his chest - it had reopened at some point during his task, the sweat and blood blooming outward to form a pink flower over his breast. Perhaps he should have had the forethought to bandage it.

As he finished the final hole Erik looked down at the body with contempt, lips curling into a moue of disgust at the fetid stink of death and shit. It was the titanic brute who had nearly bled him with his own knife, who had gone after Christopher. In the end the cur had met with the Punjab lasso. 

Had it been a different time he would not have ended it so quickly, he'd have given the filth a death admirable in its gruesomeness from one artist of torture to another. The corner of his mouth twitched in satisfaction at seeing the purple lines of his artist's signature etched around the thick, stumpy neck. He placed his foot on the corpse and shoved into the grave, repacking the dirt firmly. Then, without sparing a backwards glance he wiped his boot sole upon some grass and walked away.

By the time he reached the isolated cane farm he was fairly tired. Erik had never needed much sleep—it was but one of the many quirks that made him a formidable hunter—however, after a combination of intense physical exertion and excitement even a man as extraordinary as he had reached his limit. Fatigue, unfortunately, often made one careless. His hands had barely withdrawn from the shovel’s handle when he heard people. He cursed his foolishness in returning it but did not wish to arouse suspicion.

Slowly he melted into shadows and foliage, listening and watching lasso in hand. He lay in wait like a snake, ready to strike, tense, coiled and concealed. The voices belonged to two farm workers, undoubtedly making an early start of the day; they made an odd pair, one stooped with age and the other hardly a man - a contrast like himself and the boy, Hades and Apollo. 

"Damn barn is overrun with rats, has been for near a week. Chewing up all the cane, you know. DuPont told me to put out poison and traps but I don't need to with all the snakes about, eat 'em quick as they come. Never seen anything like this, where'd they all come from you think?"

"It’s La Montagne, I tell you."

“La Montagne? You're as mad as the rest of 'em. It’s slept for a thousand years, they say. Why would it erupt now?”

"God’s will, these things... A man can’t hope to understand. There’s something amiss, I can feel it. The plagues of rats, tremors, ash, and that smoke growing thicker and blacker each day - I heard tell of these things happening before a mountain looses its wrath.” His fellow waved a dismissive hand. 

"Stories created to scare her children and old men."

Once their voices had faded Erik slunk back into the jungle and down the path he had come, the old man’s words weighing on him with somber heaviness. It was a matter of time before the volcano erupted but erupt it would, he was sure of that. He was no expert in volcanology by any means but he _had_ read the letters of Pliny the Younger as a boy and heard accounts of sailors who had witnessed Krakatoa and Tarawera firsthand.

Any logical mind could fit the pieces together: the quakes, fleeing animals, smoking vents, ash falling like rain. Mount Peleé was awakening and soon she'd refuse to be ignored. It would be wise to double their pace. He just hoped the boy would not be a detriment to his new plans, else the villains hounding them would be the least of their concerns.

**o o o**

Raoul de Chagny's eyelids rose haltingly. He tried in vain to time the action between the throbbing pulses in his head but was luckless in the endeavor and as reward was met with a fresh surge of smarting, skull-rending pain. To worsen matters the moment he opened them his vision began to fluctuate making the room appear to be stuck in an unremitting mimicry of a pirouette.

The room, that was yet anotherthing. Disjointed as he was he didn't recognize it - the crimson gaudiness was a far-cry from that of the platitudinous inn with its blues and bland whites. Had both bed and room not been spacious he might have believed himself aboard another blasted ship with the way everything around him undulated. The mystery of his whereabouts of interest but not prudence in light of his aching head he uttered a long groan interspersed with curses and flopped onto his stomach like an infant.

Surely he was dying. There was no feasible way he could be so miserable otherwise.

"Awake at last, love?"

The sound made him freeze. Carefully he moved his head to locate the voice. Until now he hadn't even considered that there were other inhabitants in the world, let alone in the room with him. Raoul looked up to find a woman hovering over the bed and surveying him with mild amusement.

A wholly unanticipated revelation but not an unwelcome one. 

Despite his swimming eyesight he could discern that she was rather comely: tall with skin of café au lait, flowing raven hair, a voluptuous figure, clever eyes the color of fine cognac, angular features bright with gaiety, and clothed only in a satin wrapper trimmed with lace. There were _certainly_ worse views to be had upon awakening from a binge.

He parted his lips to speak but only succeeded in emitting another piteous noise, his tongue unwilling to tackle the movements requisite for speech. Only then did he notice how dry his mouth was, like a stagnant roadside puddle in which some small vermin had bathed and used as a privy before dying and rotting away - the bitter, residual tang of emesis formed a vile patina on every surface. If he wasn't dying already, he definitely wished to be.

"You're a sorry sight and it's no wonder after that spree. Here, darling, drink this." A glass was raised to his lips, “It'll help with the migraine." 

Whoever this woman was, whether witch or healer, she was right. Within a short time the dreadful pounding subsided, not completely but enough to where he no longer felt in imminent danger of expiration.

"Thanks." he murmured gruffly.

"You'll want to drink more water if you can stand it or I can bring you some tea; you'll feel better for it."

Again she was correct. After a cup of ginger tea and glass of water, he was beginning to feel human once more and was able to sit up.

"You're very hospitable, thank you. Are you a nurse?"

She laughed, pretty eyes twinkling with mirth. Raoul only stared back in confusion, unaware what aspect of his perfectly reasonable question was so humorous. "I'm not anything of the sort but I do know a thing or two about drink and curing the ailments of men."

His eyes went wide, the implication of her words settling upon him. He was in a prostitute's boudoir. What on earth had transpired last night? Had he and she...? Concentrating mightily he attempted to recall something, _anything,_ and was met with naught but a thick wall of blackness. Nevertheless he tried and tried eventually stopping when his head began drubbing in warning. Raoul couldn't bear the shame of asking her. He was positive that any woman, even in her profession, would be unhappy if it was hinted that her love-making was decidedly unmemorable, so he held his tongue in spite of the overwhelming curiosity.

"How much of last night do you remember?" she inquired, reading his confounded expression.

"Very little." Raoul confessed, glad she had broached the subject and didn't seem offended - conversely she was grinning.

"I'd be surprised if you did. You were three sheets to the wind, stumbled in here about the same time hell broke loose at the tavern across the way."

"Did I?"

"Aye. I didn't want to leave you as you were, barely able to stand, and business was slow so I brought you in here to sober up."

"I pray I haven't made trouble for you. I'm obliged... " he trailed off, hoping she would catch the prompt and supply a name.

"Madame Pasquier, but you may call me Héloïse. I am the mistress of this establishment, I can do as I please. Besides, your presence was not an inconvenience in the least." She smiled then, leaving no ambiguity behind her statement.

So they had been ...  _involved_.

This discovery was not at all unsatisfactory. Her profession aside, Héloïse was a beautiful woman, one any man would be proud to bed.

If only Christine were to see him now, reeking of perfume and reeling from the after-effects of overindulgence...

He could too-easily envisage the judgment oozing from her dark eyes and quickly thought of more pleasant things. While he loved her dearly, regarding her as a younger sister, sometimes she could come off as a bit of a shrew and he was in no mood for her priggishness at present. 

"Your English is very good. I don't think I could find it in myself to speak French presently."

Héloïse nodded. "My father was a captain in the English fleet. When maman died, he saw to my education - taught me Spanish and some Dutch too. After he died, I took the money he left me and went into business for myself, knowing several languages serves me well in a port town. I figured you'd be more comfortable in your native tongue."

"Again, thank you." Not liking how indebted he was to this kindly Madam, he changed the subject, "What sort of chaos unfolded last night? I think I remember being there at some point."

"Oh, just another brawl. There's one almost every other night. Some men looking for a lad who owes them money; I wouldn't envy the boy when they find him. English like you, the poor bastard. Maybe you know him, his name was Christian or—"

"Christopher?" Raoul furnished, his lungs compressing as if he had been kicked in the chest by a horse.

"That may have been it."

 _Christine!_ How could he have forgotten? If anything had happened to her, he would march himself to the gallows in shame. Damn! His one task was to protect her. And, apparently he had failed abysmally.

Forgetting his lack of wellness and coordination he was on his feet in a split second. He made it about four steps before the room rebelliously tilted taking his stomach with it and bringing him onto all fours vomiting so forcefully he feared his eyes would pop out of his head. Adding further insult to injury, his headache came crashing back angrily, the pain beating a fierce tattoo upon every inch of his skull. Spent, shaking, and stinking of sick he collapsed onto his side and sucked in painful gulps of air. With the sound of footsteps Raoul closed his watering eyes too humiliated and woebegone to interact with anyone.

"Care to explain your lapse in judgment?"

"No." he moaned, curling into a ball upon the rug.

" _Right._ Back to bed then, love."

An arm slipped under his own lifting him onto quavering legs, he leaned on its owner heavily. He was guided back to the bed, jerking and wavering like a newly born foal. Never had he felt so destitute and helpless, an overgrown babe needing the spittle wiped from his chin. With another dolorous groan he settled back into his earlier position, as if he could hide from the discomfort racking his body by making himself smaller.

"Your first experience with rum?" He nodded weakly and Héloïse giggled; Raoul hadn't the energy to scowl.

"It's plenty of rest for you then. I'm sure your mate Christopher is just fine," she frowned, "though probably in dire straits same as you if he got into the rum."

As she left the room he could not help but speculate over how much he'd be charged for this kindness. She came back a moment later with something for the pain and a mischievous glint in her eye, "Don't fret over payment, love, I'm sure we can work out an _arrangement_ when you're feeling right as rain again. I'll let you rest. There's a bell on your bed table should you need anything."

Raoul again wondered if Héloïse was a witch or sorceress, she _did_ seem to have an uncanny ability to read minds. This and a handful of other, equally ridiculous musings in his head, he fell into a light sleep.

**o o o**

All too soon Christine was crudely jostled awake, yanked out of the pleasant restfulness of heavy, dreamless sleep. The first words that came to the tip of her tongue were unfit for polite society. Normally they would have been uttered without pause but something in that voice made her reconsider; she vaguely recognized it from another time and place, though unsure when or where.

"Come on, boy, this is not your father's manor, you cannot linger abed all day. We must depart immediately, it's already past dawn."

Only when he spoke again did everything come flooding back to her: the tavern, being pursued, taking a captive, the villains seeking her, the fight, death, running through the jungle, and _him_.

_Him._

That infuriating, pompous arse of a man. Erik.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she sat up indignantly crossing her arms about her chest.

"I'll go nowhere with you until you tell me _why_ I should."

Erik sighed, massaging his temples. Already the morning was off to a fine start. He felt like the nanny of a particularly reluctant, fretful toddler. It would not do to lose his temper, even _if_ he wanted to throttle the whelp from the first word it had breathed.

"Very well. You should choose to accompany me because if you protest I will not hesitate to carry out my earlier threat." he replied with forced civility, quite proud of his restraint.

"You do not scare me, Erik." She sniffed, nose pitched in the air with false bravado. He took a menacing step towards her and she flinched; he practically glowed with triumph.

"And _you_ are a ghastly liar."

With an annoyed huff she kicked out of the cocoon of bedding and stood, glaring at him. "Can  _you_ blame me? You stalk me like an animal giving me nothing more than a first name, and now you expect me to accompany you on a quest to bloody Avalon for all I know. I watched you kill a man last night - Lord, more than one! Having seen you fight I can deduce that you are skilled— _trained_ , even. And, from your familiarity with literature it is apparent your education exceeds rudimentary. So, who or _what_ are you exactly?”

“Believe it or not enthusiasm for the written word is not exclusive to those who fill the hallowed halls of Oxford or Cambridge.” 

“Perhaps not, though I do not usually see laborers walking to the factory with their lunch in one hand and a volume of Milton in the other.”

”Is it often you conduct an intensive study of factory workers and their habits?”

“You know I don’t, just as  _I_ know you are more than you claim to be.”

”I have never claimed to be anything or anyone, whatever title you have bestowed upon me exists solely within your mind. However, it appears your head isn’t empty—at least not prodigiously—so I will tell you that which you need to know. There is a nefarious bunch who has discovered your father’s wealth, they seek to abduct you and extort a princely fee for your return. As you are no longer safe, I have been charged to escort you back to England. Does _this_ satisfy enough to get you through the door before the sun sets as well?”

She nodded, knowing it wasn’t the time to pry further - though it would gnaw at her the entire day.

“I am truly _overjoyed_ to hear it." Two thick rolls of cloth were tossed at her, "Here, wrap these about your calves."

"What are they?" 

"Puttees - they will provide protection for your legs."

“I don't think I'll be needing those... I have trousers, you see." Christine held out a trouser-clad leg, pointing to it for illustration.

"The fact escaped my notice.” he drawled sarcastically, “Having never strayed from your manicured gardens I do not expect you are familiar with the dangers lurking in the undergrowth: thorns, insects and snakes, to name a few. You _will_ wear them whether you are wearing breeches, trousers, or skirts, regardless of your opinion on the subject. Now put on your boots and wrap your legs whilst I finish packing.”

Grumbling, Christine did as instructed. Although, she struggled she dared not ask for guidance, resolving not to give him any such satisfaction. Afterwards she inspected her appearance, cringing at the state of her shirt. Once ivory it had become a dull, greyish color adorned with various stains and sporting several rips and snags - a perfectly good shirt ruined! And now her _only_ one. By the time they arrived at their godforsaken destination - wherever the hell that was - it would be in tatters. She cursed him under her breath, for it was his fault. If he had not whisked her away in such a hurry she could have grabbed additional garments.

It was just one more reason—amidst a growing list—to dislike this man.

"Am I expected to undertake this journey with just the clothes on my back or will we seek out a tailor along the way?"

Something large was shoved into her chest in response. Its weight nearly caused her to topple backward: a rucksack of crude serge, what looked to be military issue. She examined it awkwardly. What in God’s name he expect her to do with this?

"What is—"

"Your clothes, little prince." He interposed on a curt, mocking bow.

" _My ... clothes?_ "

“Christ, am I to repeat every bloody word I utter today?! YES, _your_ clothes as in the ones taken from _your_ room at the inn, all accounted for and _all_ inside." Christine opened her mouth but he held up a silencing hand, "And, before you think to launch another round of pointless inquiries— _yes_ , your room has been cleared; the remainder of your belongings _are_ on a steamer bound for England and three notes penned in _your_ hand left behind: one for the old professor, another for your idiot chum, and a third containing a false trail should others come looking for you. As far as the world knows Christopher Daaé is no longer on Martinique, so don your goddamn rucksack or I’ll leave you where you stand gaping like a witless carp!” He brushed past her roughly and resumed his earlier task. As he busied himself packing she ruminated.

_Her room had been cleaned out, clothes and personal effects either shipped home or stuffed into the bag she held. Letters, obviously forged, had been written to the two people who might note her absence..._

A volley of emotions assailed her.

Outrage. Gratitude. Confusion. Respect. Embarrassment. 

How dare he touch her things without permission? Though, it _was_ thoughtful of him to see to her comfort. When had he the time to do all of this? It _was_ an accomplishment, to be sure - but he, a man, had rifled through her clothes and touched her unmentionables.

Regarding the last she was glad she had not brought a single article of women’s clothing, there would have been nothing to give her away. That was a silver lining at least. She was dreadfully curious to know how—or, indeed, _when—_ he had managed all of this but following his outburst decided it prudent to keep her head down. Christine joined him shortly thereafter, rucksack perched upon her back. It was heavier than anticipated. 

"That is far from full. How do you presume to make it through jungle and over mountain if you can barely handle the weight of your rucksack? Perhaps it would be easier if I were to build a litter and round up some slaves to carry you, little prince.”

"I AM _NOT_ A LITTLE PRINCE!" she screamed, unable to stay quiet a second more. Mayhap she’d be better served surrending to those who hunted her, she doubted they would be half as irritating as him. He laughed, the sound concurrently melodic and grating; she both abhorred and drew solace from it, like every element of his person.

"Can we set off? You've been making an ado for the past twenty minutes and yet only I am ready.”

She should not have said anything, she should have kept her mouth firmly closed. Erik scrutinized her then, azure eyes roving over her head, arms, torso, thighs, _and—_

"Those are not wrapped correctly, they will come undone."

Recovering from the intensity of his gaze she dimly perceived he referred to her leg wraps. Her ears burned with a steady heat that trickled upwards from her jaw; she abscribed it to those strange, feral eyes.

In their short tenure together Christine had concluded that they were the most unsettling part of him, not his voice or the mystery surrounding him but his eyes. Beautiful as they were, ever-changing in the light, they exuded an eerie omniscience as if he could unravel the core of her being with just one look.

"Forgive my making a mistake when I received no prior instruction outside of 'wrap your legs'."

"Sit down and let me see."

The first rays of the sun had begun to penetrate the surrounding trees, peeping through any space it could find amongst the snarl of branches, leaves and vines. Huffing, Christine sat down upon a rock nearly kicking Erik in the face as he knelt in front of her. She briefly lamented missing. Still fantasizing about doing him bodily harm, she was wholly unprepared when he grabbed her ankle and forced her foot onto his knee.

" _W-Wha—_ "

"Keep still, boy, I won't hurt you. I am going to demonstrate how to properly wrap puttees, watch so that you will learn.”

With a surprisingly gentle touch he unwound the puttees from one calf and then the other, re-rolling each cloth. Starting at her shin he wrapped the fabric’s loose end round her leg, the first two passes overlapping the top of her boot, and continued up her calf. The entire process was carried out in gradual, deliberate reticence. No words crossed his lips but periodically his gaze would bore into hers ensuring her focus. It was agonizingly uncomfortable. Christine could not express why, only certain that she would have preferred a droning vocal instruction to whatever _this_ was.

"Where are we going?" she ventured, wanting, _needing_ a diversion.

"There is a small port to the south on the windward side of the island, we will sail from there. The trip is approximately forty miles over rough terrain, we should make it within the week.” Erik tied the cotton tape snugly beneath her knee and got to his feet.

"FORTY MILES?!" she threw back at him, “That's absurd! Surely there is a closer port - what of Saint-Pierre? If everybody believes I have already left, couldn't we just slip away at night? There's plenty of steamers and—" Instantly he rounded on her, hovering close like he had last night. This time he did not seize her. He did not need to, she was already listening with rapt attention. 

“Continue trying my patience and you will sorely regret it, my warnings are not infinite. We are hiking to Sainte-Anne and _that_ is the end of it. And, if your legs prove half as eager as your mouth, we will arrive in record time.“ 

" _Fine_. But, what of Raoul? Should we not ensure he is well before departing?”

Again he approached, a length of rope in hand. A wild panic set in. She had pushed him too far, she just knew it. Christine instinctively edged away never taking her eyes off him. But, rather than gagging and trussing her as threatened he simply tied it about her waist, the opposite end already attached to him. 

“The walk can be treacherous for the inexperienced, it would not do to fall or get separated.” he supplied reading her expression. "Your friend’s fate is of no concern to me, I've not been charged with the boy's safety, only yours."

They were off then and Christine was left to plod after him like a bedraggled old mule.

Progress was painfully slow, their path damp, overgrown and littered with root and rock. It annoyed him to no end, evinced by the furious hack of his machete. She got the impression that he blamed her for their lethargic pace as she clumsily tried to navigate boulders and brush. But, two could play at that game. There was secret delight to be had in his every grunt, huff, and swear and she took her sweet time - Christine could not think of another soul upon whom she would wish more difficulty.

Eventually, though, the fun began to wear thin and she started toiling in earnest. For a while it was all she could do to concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other. However, once the terrain grew less strenuous she was in want of another diversion. She found it in grilling him with incessant questions, which, aside from annoying him served as a distraction from burning muscles and pained lungs.

_Why didn't my father write to me explaining the situation instead of recruiting you?_

_How did you get into my room? When did you have time to pack my things? How did you forge my hand?_

_Where did you learn to fight? Are you a soldier? Were you in the conflict in Southern Africa?_

_Have you been to Martinique before?_

"Since I will get nothing otherwise, I suppose I'll begin answering _for_ you."

"Are you _ever_ fucking quiet?" he snapped, the first words he had spoken since morning. 

"Not when I can see how much it vexes you..." she whispered smugly to the air. 

**o o o**

At last, when she felt she would drown in her own sweat, they stopped. Christine glanced around her, the sun was low and they were in a small clearing.

"We shall make camp here. Drop your rucksack and make yourself useful."

In a bit of uncharacteristic compliance she did as ordered. Maybe it was that she was exhausted or that she had her fill of irritating him, either way she made herself indispensable for the next half hour. They set up camp in noiseless harmony, each of them longing for a filling meal and soft place to rest. Everything completed, Christine sat back and admired the fruits of their labors; they made quite the efficient pair when not bickering. 

There was only one problem.

"Where is my tent?"

"We will share a tent."

"B-But that's hardly p-proper!" she squeaked before she could stop herself.

He gave her a curious look that melded into a grin, " _Why?_ Does it discomfit you to sleep in such close proximity to a criminal?"

"It just seems rather ... _cramped_ is all." she explained lamely, cognizant she couldn’t reveal the true origins of her unease. 

Faced with his silence she realized how ridiculous her concern must have seemed. What was the harm in it? They had separate bedrolls and had slept in the same space the previous night. Christine made a note to think before she spoke in future. She was an actress playing a role, after all, and would do well to remember that. Besides, he would not touch her so long as he still believed her to be a boy.

—but _if_ he found out...

She refused to think on it and focused instead on her dinner of tinned meat and beans, the potential consequences so dire they defied contemplation. 

At least the fire was cosy; she drew reassurance from it in this void of uncertainty and adversity. It warmed tired bones and a soul in disarray, the lone source of comfort upon which Christine could draw. So, when Erik kicked dirt upon it she lashed out, incensed.

“What the devil did you do that for?!”

“The air is clear tonight, prolonged smoke might draw unwanted attention.” His comment, cavalierly uttered, stoked the flames of her rage from the ashes of the deceased fire. 

"It is _your_ fault if more of those scoundrels are after us! Why should I be made to suffer for your crimes? Maybe they are out for revenge...”

"No, little prince, the fault belongs to your father.”

Reeling with such tangible fury she couldn’t see straight, Christine jumped up. He—this ghastly profligate—dared impugn her dear, kind papa? It was slander, it was _blasphemy._ She would not stand for this from anyone _especially_ this reprobate.

”HOW _DARE_ YOU MALIGN MY FATHER’S CHARACTER?!” she shrieked, fists shaking, heart pounding, “He is a thousand times the man you are, you... _you—“_ Erik looked up then, his eyes narrowed and darkened to a Payne’s grey; the orange glow of the embers reflecting within them they resembled burning stone. 

"You would be wise _not_ to finish that sentence, _boy_." The words were carried on a soft, louring hiss - an explicit warning that she was too enraged to heed.

“My father has no dealings in the Caribbean, he could not have had anything to do with this! Furthermore, he does not gamble or swindle nor is he involved in any disreputable ventures, unlike a great many _other_ men.”

“YOUR FATHER HAD _EVERYTHING_ TO DO WITH IT!” he snarled, "Gustave Daaé's witless pottering in politics has brought the wrath of England's most despicable criminal organizations upon his, and, by extension,  _your_  head. You are merely a means of making a statement, a statement I doubt you’d wish to be a part of as it will guarantee you meet with a rather lurid end. I have been tasked with retrieving and returning you to your grand estate in Oxfordshire so that no such fate will befall your ungrateful, spoilt hide."

"They wanted to k-kill me?"

"Torture first, I think." Erik was leering wickedly, "Perhaps send you back to bungling papa, _piece-by-piece_."

"You are a _horrid_ man...”

He shrugged indifferently, "Yes, and your _sole_ chance of survival at present.”

Christine dived into the tent hoping he would miss the hot, fat tears that wove rivers down her cheeks. His assertion was inarguable. Her encyclopedic knowledge of plants and their uses would be of no help out here - here, immersed in a jungle halfway up a mountain on an unfamiliar island. She hadn’t the slightest idea how to navigate or live off the land. 

For the first time in her life she felt incapable and stupid and weak. Academia, the sum-total of her existence, was meaningless, irrelevant. Never had she encountered a problem whose solution could not be found in books. 

... until _now_.

This was the real world and she was foundering spectacularly.

A spring of malice bubbled up within her. Christine despised herself for being useless and him for calling attention to her ineptitude, but most of all she detested herself for having to rely on a man like a clichéd damsel in distress. Nauseated, gutted, she slid into her bedroll and sobbed. She had not cried herself to sleep since she was a child, however, she had the sneaking suspicion that it was to become somewhat of a commonality on this trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The aforementioned letters by Pliny are those of Pliny the Younger concerning his uncle, Pliny the Elder’s, death during the 79 AD eruption of Mount Vesuvius. It is the only surviving eyewitness account of the eruptions and renowned for the accuracy of its description, so much so that volcanologists dubbed eruptions of the same type, 'Plinian'.
> 
> As for the two eruptions mentioned...
> 
> Krakatoa erupted in Indonesia in 1883 and destroyed over 70% of itself (it was an island) and the surrounding archipelago. It's still regarded as one of the deadliest and most violent eruptions in recorded history. Over 30,000 people died in the combination of pyroclastic flows and tsunamis. To this day some villages in Java have not been rebuilt. The effects of the eruption were felt throughout the world causing a decrease in global temperatures, spectacular sunsets, and a darkened night sky. Fun fact: Krakatoa's eruption was classified as 'Ultra Plinian'.
> 
> Tarawera erupted in 1886 and was one of New Zealand's largest eruptions. It split the mountain and created a volcanic rift valley, destroyed natural wonders, and buried Māori villages in debris, ash, and mud 66 ft deep. Around 120 people were killed; it was also a Plinian eruption.


	7. Misus and Mopsa hardly could agree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day two brings welcome relief for Raoul but more misery for Christine as she and Erik continue to bicker.

**29 April - Day 2**

It was noon the day next when Raoul finally walked into his room in the quaint, homey inn. After a day of rest and plenty of gruel, aspirin, herbs and fluids his 'nurse' had at last declared him fit for discharge - well, she had technically deemed him fine the previous evening but neither of them believed another night abed would hurt, not that there had been much resting involved. A boyish grin lit his features at the memory as his shoulders sagged and his strut became more of a trudge.

Though the world around him no longer spun like a carousal ride his body was still shaky and fatigued. He wasn't a stranger to drink but two nights past had been a definite first and he was not at all keen to repeat the experience. Why had he been foolish enough to drink half a bottle of rum?

Eyeing his haggard reflection in the looking glass he recalled a night two summers ago in Paris. His brother, Phillipe, had sought out the seedier side of Montmartre with some friends and returned to the home they were renting absolutely stewed on absinthe. He had walked through the door singing some bawdy melody in French, cheeks and collar dotted with lip rouge, clothes reeking of smoke and perfume, attempted to scale the stairs and fell with a grand smack onto the marble. The servants never quite got all the blood out of the carpet; mother had been furious. Not that women and drink were alien to Phillipe, this had just been one of his more _undignified_ hours.

Christ, he was turning into his brother!

Raoul threw a longing glance at the bed that beckoned him, begging him to lie down for a short spell, and shook his head to ward off temptation. He had other, more important things to see to, things like his closest friend, his closest friend whose welfare had been entrusted to him by her father, dear Christine. Praying that she had not come to harm he exited his own room and walked down the hall to hers hesitating in front of her door.

Happy as he was to be in relatively improved health and able to see Christine he dreaded having to account for his absence. He had mulled extensively over what excuse to give ranging from his drunkenly wandering the beach and losing his way to renting a room above the bar to sleep off the spirits.

Eventually he decided upon neither. What, then, could he say? She knew he had no friends or family nearby, meaning any explanation of the sort was not an option. He could simply tell her that he had met a woman. It wasn't a lie, he _had_ met a woman—a woman whose profession was completely irrelevant.

There would be questions of course, loads of questions. _Always_ there were questions with her. Raoul knew he could not begin to field all of them, at some point the truth would out. Christine, to her credit and his current chagrin, was far too shrewd to be so easily duped.

The judgment would follow swiftly. He remembered her reaction when his brother had come home vehemently arguing with his Oxford chum over which brothel was the finest in Paris; she never spoke to Phillipe afterwards, making her views on ‘whoremongers’ abundantly clear. Then again, she had never been the biggest fan of the elder de Chagny so perhaps she wouldn't be overly harsh on him.

Besides, he could always grovel if all else failed. Christine was sometimes priggish but on the whole she was a sweet, compassionate girl who tolerated him admirably. Was this offense _truly_ any worse than the time he had put a beetle in her hair? His confidence buoyed, he prepared to knock.

"Oh, Randall! I've not seen you for a few days, have you been ill?"

 _Randall?_  

He rolled his eyes. There was only one person who bungled his name that badly. Sure enough, Raoul turned to see Professor Harding strolling towards him.

"I have, yes.” It was not a total fabrication.

”You still look a bit peaky,” the old man said, surveying him, “You will need to be more mindful of your health, my boy, you’ll not find any London physicians here. Anyways, terrible shame about your friend Christopher is it not? He was a very enthusiastic lad, an intellectual mind and natural aptitude for botany, that one. Pity he was schooled in America, I should have loved to have had him in my courses.”

Cold panic ran down his body, immersing him in a frigid pond of dread and freezing him in place.

"Pardon, sir, but _what_ is a shame?" he asked, not wanting to know, unsure if he could handle the answer.

"Did he not tell you? I got the letter just yesterday. Apparently something has happened involving his father that required his immediate return to England. He received the telegram late Sunday night and departed first thing yesterday morning. It was all very sudden from what he said, only had time to grab his clothes and write the necessary letters; had the hotel pack the remainder of his belongings and ship them behind him."

"No, he did not. I was visiting a friend when I fell ill and haven't had contact with him since Sunday evening. Would you mind terribly showing me the letter?"

Professor Harding nodded sympathetically, "Not at all, dear boy, not at all. Although, I believe he wrote you one as well and I daresay yours might be a spot more informative."

"He did?"

"Yes, the front desk has it."

Without another word he sprinted down the stairs, nearly bowling over a couple in his flight. By the time he reached the front desk, he felt like he had run the entire length of the island.

"You ... have ... a letter ... for me ... I ... _believe._ Raoul ... de Chagny." he panted, ignoring the look of patent disapproval he received.

"You are Raoul de Chagny?"

"Yes!"

"I have your letter here, _yes_."

It took a Herculean effort to not shout at the innkeeper to give him the blasted letter and be quick about it. Teeth grinding, he patiently waited for the man to locate and present the missive, his nerves a bit of string being stretched tighter and tighter. Soon he would snap, if he didn't first wear his teeth down to the gum.

"Here we are, sir. A letter from one Mr Christopher Daaé."

" _Thank you._ " Raoul ground out as evenly as possible.

Uncaring about decorum, Raoul tore up back up to his room as fast as he had come down and slammed the door behind him. He didn't bother using a letter opener, instead tearing into the envelope like a madman and unfolding the paper so violently he almost ripped it.

* * *

_Dearest Raoul,  
_

_I regret being unable to provide you an explanation in person, but I'm afraid everything transpired with an abruptness that would have made such an impossibility. Tonight upon returning to my room I found my window open and an anonymous note upon the desk, its contents of a most threatening character._

_Somehow a reprehensible band of miscreants has discovered that I am the child of Gustave Daaé and plan to do me injurious harm. Of these intentions, I must confess, I am not convinced, however the menacing tone of the aforementioned note has sufficiently unnerved me to the point at which I see no other recourse but to quit the island forthwith. I_ _dare not make further mention of my travel arrangements nor will I disclose any additional information which might be intercepted and used against me, my father, or, God forbid, you._

 _Regarding this letter I beg of you to keep the true nature of my departure secret and make no mention of me to another soul, even if prompted._   _I do not wish to put your well-being at risk and could never live with myself if these monsters were to unearth our connection._

_I'll conclude this letter by assuring you of my safety. Please do not labour under the delusion that I am in need of rescuing; you have always tended towards rashness, my friend. Stay and enjoy the Caribbean beauty for our combined benefit, please. It is my deepest regret that I must leave it behind and I shall never forgive the transgression should you do so as well under pretext of a needless chivalrous crusade._

_Yours,_

_Christopher_

_P.S._

_I_ _will write once I am back in Oxfordshire and expect nothing less than a full regaling of your exotic adventures upon your return in July._ _Be forewarned that I demand such detailed descriptions that Emerson and Thoreau would bemoan the sheer volume of information and thus be forevermore put off by the natural world._

* * *

It was difficult to quell the smile that sprung up as he finished reading. Christine was alive and well after all, her exposition intersecting perfectly with what Héloïse had told him the day before. If he had harbored any doubts as to the authenticity of Professor Harding's letter they were promptly dispelled by the missive clutched in his hand. It was so very _her_ that it could not possibly be a forgery. He had known her from the time they were babes, not a soul on earth could have replicated her essence so well. Though he felt a pang of remorse that she could not stay, it _was_ her dream, he was not the least bit forlorn that she was secure and unscathed.

At peace once more Raoul beamed effusively at the bed and was only too glad to sink into its soft embrace.

**o o o**

Morning came early in the mountains. Maybe it was the gradual lightening of sky or chorus of birdsong that chased sleep away. Christine could not say for certain, all she knew was that she was awake and every inch of her body felt weighted with lead. Even her face was affected, swollen and heavy from hours of crying.

Blessedly she was alone in the tent and did not try to hide her contentment with the fact. She was not possessed of any particular desire to see or speak with Erik after last night and took meticulous care in dressing in a fresh shirt, lacing her boots, and rolling up her bed - anything to delay the inevitable. After she had gathered enough conviction she emerged from the tent, head held high.

"You're awake." Erik was seated on fallen tree, fastening his gaiters, the typical miasma of arrogance hanging thick about him even at this hour. Christine gritted her teeth, she had hoped for a small reprieve but it was evidently not to be.

" _Obviously._ " she spat, awaiting the caustic reply that was all-but guaranteed, "May we skip the pleasantriesand just eat?"

"If you so desire."

Instead of seeking out his rucksack he approached her. She stepped backwards uneasily, resenting the way he fed off of intimidation, hating how he skulked about like some wretched black hound. Christine glared back not wanting to give him a bully's satisfaction, an impasse therein followed.

Both stared, neither moved.

Twice before had found them in this same position, the first time he had laid hands on her and the second his threats had been confined to words. What would he do this third time? An amalgam of fright and ghoulish curiosity coursed through her blood. Beneath her unsettled emotions it registered that she was too close to him, too close to this dangerous, murderous rogue quite literally masked in mystery. She tried to stand resolute, to curb her nerves, but the strange tingle that radiated outwards from her stomach, fluttering like a million moths into her every limb, made it nigh impossible.

Finally when she thought she might need to fall to the ground and crawl, drag herself away from him and those accursed haunting eyes, he reached into the air beside her head and pulled away, his hand now clutching something wrapped in brown paper. He appraised her a moment more with that inscrutable mien.

"You still believe I will harm you, young Daaé. Perhaps this might help to gain your trust." His whisper came reflective, spoken softly as if meant for his ears alone. Erik took her hand and placed the package into her palm. "Open it." he prompted.

Still unnerved, Christine peeled back the paper to reveal a fat, golden currant bun, almost dropping it in surprise.

"What's this?"

”I should think it quite obviously a pastry.”

"Yes, I can see as much."

”Why, then, ask such a foolish question? Or, did I mishear your request for breakfast?”

“ _No_ , you did not mishear.” she ground out, ready to hurl said breakfast at his face, “Forgive me, I forgot the need for _absolute_ clarity where you are concerned. I meant to ask  _where_ it came from and _why_ you've given it to me."

"Those questions were not at all implied."

Really, it was a consummate pity that buns were made from bread and not boulders. 

— _not_ that she wanted to do him grevious injury but surely a split lip or few missing teeth weren’t too morbid of a hope.

"Would you mind terribly just answering? I've no wish to start the morning with another of those migraines that tend to follow any interaction with you.”

" _Gladly,_ " There was an edge to his voice, "It came from a bakery in town and I thought you might enjoy it. Does _that_ satisfy?"

Without pausing for a response he turned his attention to packing away the tent. As she watched him fold the canvas she couldn't help the stinging discomfort that needled her innards, not quite guilt but unpleasant nonetheless. He had tried to do her a kindness and her reaction had been rather rude. 

The sensation was magnified when she took the first bite of sweet bread, slightly hard and on the verge of staleness but entirely wonderful - a definite improvement from her last breakfast of tinned milk and hard, flavorless biscuits. She was stunned by the gesture. What had he meant by it? It seemed uncharacteristic of the crude, abrasive man with whom she had spent the past day and a half. _Mayhap you judged him too harshly_ , her mind posited. 

Perhaps she _had_...

Perhaps there was more to Erik than previously thought. Christine pondered the subject as she put on her leg wraps, a skill she had yet to master and had to restart several times. After the third attempt she was beyond frustration - how could something so simple in theory be so difficult in practice? It was just winding cloth about one’s legs for God’s sake, it was not as if she had to translate Shakespeare into old Aramaic!  _He_ had made it look so easy. 

Loosing a cry of exasperation she dropped a wrap on the ground and gave it a solid kick. Her irritation unravelled alongside the cloth imbuing her with the satisfaction of destruction.

"Sit."

Erik held the discarded puttee and was picking leaf litter from it. The order was issued in a single tense word and she answered with one equally terse and clipped.

"Why?"

"Allow me to do that, you're struggling."

"I'm fine, _thank you_." she shot back, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Don't be prideful. You are in clear need of aid."

" _Don't be prideful?_ " Christine laughed in his face, "Coming from _you_ that's like an inebriate labelling another man a drunkard after one bad spree."

"SIT!” he barked impatiently.

"I'M NOT A BLOODY DOG!”

“No," he mused, "dogs are far _more_ obedient, far less stubborn, and do not dispute their master's commands. Were you a dog I would be all the more contented for it—jubilant, even. Now do as you are told and _sit down_."

She complied throwing him a look of pure venom, only doing so because she was the better person in their argument; she knew when to concede for the good of them both. For the second day he wrapped her calves. Again with that painstakingly slow pace; again his eyes held her gaze; and, again she was awash with that queer feeling whenever he made contact. Sensation effloresced from the touch of his hand, intensifying with each brush of his fingers until her entire leg prickled and smouldered - it did not stop even when it reached the terminus where leg intersected hip, instead climbing upwards and settling deep in her stomach. 

Christine now pined for dialogue, she longed for him to say something, wanted to yell out, but no sound emerged. The loaded silence was oppressive, smothering. She _needed_ noise! Why didn't he speak? Could he not see she was going mad?

"Am I hurting you?”

"I d-don’t _— what_?” 

"Are the puttees wrapped too tightly? Your legs are shaking." He was composed, a touch puzzled but otherwise unruffled.

 _—unlike_ her. 

Only she was affected. Why this was the case she had no idea. But, it was terrifying, a foreign plague for which there was no name or cure. Christine prayed it would resolve itself yet this appeared to be a fool’s hope - every touch, whether willful or not, worsened the affliction. And, she would die if he kept touching her. 

"I am simply eager to leave. The sooner we set off, the sooner I can enjoy my sparse hours of leisure before beginning this hellish cycle anew.”

"As the little prince commands..."

He slipped into his rucksack, adjusting the Sam Browne belt that crossed his torso and fastening a large knife onto the frog at his hip. It was bigger than the one he kept in his boot yet smaller than the machete. 

Holy Father, how many knives did one man need?

"Do I get one too?" Erik let out a mad chuckle as if she had told a particularly funny joke, tapering off when he realized she had been in earnest. 

"Absolutely _not_."

"Afraid I will use it against you?"

Of course, she would _never_... Yes, she had struck him in the head with the grip of Raoul’s pistol but that had been in preemptive self-defense - she hadn’t known that he meant her no harm. And, _yes_ , she had dreamt of hitting him over and over but she would never hurt him, not intentionally. Even though she would rather be in the company of most any other person on the planet and could hardly tolerate him, he had saved her life. Such a monumental debt engendered loyalty, no matter how reluctantly given.

“Not at all. I am simply not in the habit of entrusting weapons to imbeciles or children."

"Difficult as it is for you to grasp I am neither dog nor imbecile, and I am most definitely  _not_ a child.” He shrugged.

"You are certainly entitled to think as much... Still the fact remains that you’ve no experience with a blade nor any other weapon, as you proved twice over with both your revolver and mine.“

"All right. You've made your point."

"Have I? Here I am positively stupefied."

"I just thought it might be useful if I needed to defend myself."

"From what? So long as I am breathing you needn't worry for your safety."

"Is that a written fact?" she jibed acerbically.

"Let us call it a promise."

Something passed between them then, a potent, heady thing. The dynamic, inexplicable nature of it caught her out, startling her. Like a spooked horse she bolted towards another topic and selected the first that came into her head.

"Do you have a surname or is Erik more of a title?"

"Why do you have a pressing desire to know?" he returned, nonplussed - presumably owing to her subject change. He must think her unhinged. Not that he thought of her at all, unless it was contemplating the ways in which she was a burden.

"I don't. Although, it seems only fair considering you know mine and Lord knows what else about me. I, on the contrary, know nothing of you other than the name you’ve given me and your alleged purpose.”

An interlude of deliberation before he said, "Grey."

Erik Grey.

An innocuous sounding name, deceptively so for anyone who knew of what he was capable. It was the last thing she managed to wheedle out of him before they began to walk. 

The morning proved much the same as yesterday: hot, sweaty, and gruelling. Already-sore muscles were hasty to make known their displeasure, heretofore unknown pangs ripping through them with each step. By the time they reached Sainte-Anne she really would resemble a man with all of this exercise. She wanted to curl up and cry but knew he would resort to dragging her by her hair and so kept on.

Except now another, unrelated ache blossomed in her lower half. Fresh panic reared its head, she couldn't ask him to stop—not when their last break had been less than an hour ago—she would need to stop drinking and put any discomfort from mind. But, try as she might it became harder to overlook. Each minute elapsed blended into a timeless loop of agony that jostled her bladder with every thought or breath.

A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. Christine made a valiant attempt not to focus on the droplets running down her face—running, running, flowing cool and lovely and free. Moisture began to well in her eyes; she closed them in disgust and bit her lip with the pain.

God Almighty, why did _everything_ involve thrice-damned water?!

"What the devil is the matter with you?"

Christine opened her eyes to see Erik staring at her, the rope connecting them pulled taut; she was not aware she had stopped walking. She had no choice but to tell him otherwise she would expire - that was if embarrassment did not strike her down first. 

"I-I need to..." she began, unsure how on earth to phrase it. This was not a matter for discourse, polite or no. It was a taboo the same as all inevitable bodily functions, a subject not meant to be broached with anyone.

"Need to what?"

"I have to— well, you  _know..._ "

"No, I do not. If I did, in fact, _know_  I would need not ask."

Count on him to make a delicate situation impossible. Another man might have stopped there but not him, never Erik. Forced to choose between her pride and her bladder overflowing she made one last effort at subtlety.

"I have to do _something..._ ”

"And yet here you stand talking in riddles and gesticulating like a buffoon."

"I NEED TO PISS!" she screeched, fists balled at her sides.

A hand flew to her mouth, clamping over it as if she had cursed the Lord in front of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Mayhap Raoul had been valid in his complaint about her swearing. Her governesses along with every fine lady who ever knew her would have fainted dead away upon hearing Christine Daaé spout such crass vulgarity. Although, they might have been just as likely to faint had they seen her present state.

He regarded her as one would a rambling crackpot. "There is a tree right there."

"I-I _can’t_. You are here...”

"I will turn my back if privacy is such a pressing issue. Be quick about it, we've miles to go yet."

"NO! I meant— I’m not able to...  _go_ with someone near."

“Oh, for the love of God, unhitch yourself and go into the damn bushes then!"

She scurried away as soon as the words had left his lips, concealing herself deep within the undergrowth in the event he decided to follow. The relief was so tremendous that had some divine being floated down from the heavens and made itself known to her she would not have had awe to spare.

"I trust you will live?" Erik asked upon her reemergence from the jungle.

"Unfortunately for you, _yes_." 

"I would find nothing fortunate in your demise.”

" _T-Truly_? I—I didn’t think you cared.” It was impossible not to be touched. She had misjudged him horribly, indeed. Oh, she was a rotten sort! Never was she more ashamed of her behavior.

"Of course I care, young Daaé - were you to die I would not receive compensation.” Her mouth fell open. 

” _YOU_ —YOU SELFISH, UNFEELING ARSE!” Erik laughed in response, easily dodging the stick she lobbed at him. 

And, in the infinitesimal span of a second she was back to hating him. Theirs was a rightly _inspirational_ relationship. 

**o o o**

The afternoon brought a revival of her game of questions. There were no answers were to be had, as expected. Talking, even if it was to the wall of his back, again served to shift focus away from her ravaged body. However, the need for distraction was not the whole of it. Ever since their meeting a growing fascination had metastasized deep within her. Animosity, though powerful, offered no shelter from this alarming infection, the more time suffered in his presence the worse it became. He was like a character in a novel, a mysterious figure with an abstruse purpose. For a sheltered girl who had only ever shared the company of harmless, effete gentlemen he made a riveting anomaly.

_Where were you born?_

_Have you traversed the globe? Aside from English and French how many languages do you speak?_

_How old are you? Were you raised in England?_

_Have you any siblings?_

_What of your profession - are you a soldier turned mercenary or a spy like the protagonist in Kipling's novel of the same name?  
_

Tonight her inquiries continued after their hike had ended, outlasting both daylight and dinner. She lost count of them all, repeating herself more than once. It was this upon which he capitalized.

“You have asked the same thing yet again. If I did not answer the first two times, _why_ would I do so now?!”

" _Omne trium perfectum_. Three is possibly the _most_ significant number there is to mankind spanning boundaries both religious and cultural. In Christian belief alone there is the Holy Trinity, Jesus rising the third day after his death, the Devil tempting Jesus thrice, et cetera. In the words of the immortal William Shakespeare, 'there's divinity in threes, either in birth, chance, or dying' and I happen to _personally_ believe that third time is the—"

"Christ! Does your blathering  _never_ cease?!” he interrupted, fingers drilling into his temples.

"Are you affronted by the superstition or perplexed by the Latin?" Christine retorted placidly. With respect to questioning, annoying Erik was tied as her new favorite pastime.

"If anything is an affront it is your detestable mishandling of Shakespeare. I believe the quote for which you were striving—and abysmally so—is, ‘they say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death'. Regarding superstion it is said,  _m_ _obiles ad superstitionem perculsae semel mantes_." Glacuous eyes flashed, relishing in her shock, "You are not as clever as you think. Contrary to what you may believe, you are _not_ the Robinson Crusoe to my Friday, there's naught you have to teach me, little prince."

So, he knew Latin...

It was something, a start, her strategy had not been a total fool’s errand. Despite having been insulted Christine could not help her excitement in finding someone who could match her extensive literary knowledge. Papa derived more from practical pursuits like business; Meg preferred arrangements of flowers to arrangements of words; and Raoul, though by no means unintelligent, would not pick up a book unless it was about his beloved insects or hunting. In all honesty this, _he_ was a breath of fresh air. Maybe he would indulge her in discussing novels - once they two could interact civilly, that was.

"Oh, _well_ , my apologies for seeking to know more about my travelling companion. I don’t ask questions because I enjoy the sound of my own voice, you know."

" _That_ warrants debate." he scoffed.

"Regardless of what you think, Mr Grey, you cannot prevent me from asking and, mark me, I _will_ know every answer I seek by the end of this trek."

"I would not be so sure.” 

"If you are threatening to gag me again I'm not afraid."

"No? Pity, _that_. It appears I have lost my touch... Naturally, there are alternative means, I _could_ cut out your tongue for instance.”

She paled. "You _w-wouldn't_! Besides, I'd bleed to d-death."

His lips twisted into a ghoulish caricature of a smile. Leering through the flames as he was he could have been a demon.

“That is why the blade is put into the fire—cauterizes the wound, not a drop of blood. I assume you are aware of the mechanics of cauterization, yes? You don't require an explanation or a ... _demonstration_?”

Something moved rhythmically within the flames, swishing to and fro like a cat’s tail. Back and forth, back and forth it went. Christine stared, entranced, eyes following its path, wondering what was carving beauty into fire. It glinted silver and orange, captivating.

... a knife. 

For the second night in a row she dove into the safety of the tent, her vision colored with terror instead of tears, jaw clamped shut not in anger but by fear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote hails from Shakespeare’s, “Merry Wives of Windsor”.
> 
> The first bit of Latin translates to, ‘Everything that comes in threes is perfect.’
> 
> The second bit translates to, ‘The misfortunate are inclined towards superstition.’


End file.
